


Family

by SiderealMessenger



Series: Providence [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Mob, M/M, Mafia AU, Mob Boss Bill Cipher, New York City, Older Characters, Writer Dipper Pines, human form Bill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 01:28:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 39,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5808007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiderealMessenger/pseuds/SiderealMessenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1926. Dipper Pines' first novel is a wild success, and at the age of 25, he worries he may already be washed up. Seeking inspiration, he moves to New York City, the cultural hub of the nation. But under Prohibition, culture and crime are intertwined, and the city is in the grip of the violent Cipher crime family. When Dipper has a run-in with the head of the family, none other than Bill Cipher himself, he realizes he's gotten himself into more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Out of the Woods, and into the Jungle

**Author's Note:**

> This work stands alone, but does have some bearing on the arc of the Providence series. If you follow the series, you'll see what I mean. I really just wanted to contribute something to the Gravity Falls mafia AU (started by thereinliesmyproblem & stickydoona I believe) that I love so much. As a History major, I do try to be historically accurate, but please let me know if you notice any errors. This fic will probably be slow in updating, as I'm back in school, but I never abandon a fic, and I will finish this one sooner or later, so no worries.
> 
> This fic was inspired by a playlist I made recently. You can listen to it here: http://8tracks.com/tempest27/it-s-so-good-to-be-bad

Dipper was about ready to hurl his Underwood typewriter out of his tenth-story window if it wouldn’t potentially earn him a manslaughter charge. He had just about had it with his writer’s block. He had thought that moving to New York City, the hub of American culture, always restless with excitement, light and life, would give him just the spark he needed to start his next novel – and make no mistake, everyone was expecting another one. A writer didn’t come out with a debut novel like _The Dark Woods_ and then just _stop_. 

His book had hit the _Publishers Weekly_ best sellers list the week of its release, and had shot to the number one spot the week after. A couple of the more daring or besotted critics had even made glancing comparisons to Hemingway. Fucking _Hemingway_! How was Dipper supposed to follow that up? Not that he was ungrateful for his success. On the contrary, despite getting measly pennies on the dollar after his agent and the publisher took their cut of the spoils, it was money from the sales of his book alone that had enabled him to move across the country, leaving his family in California, to settle into a rather ritzy New York apartment. He wasn’t, in fact, at _the_ Ritz, but he may as well have been. Pacifica Northwest had made it clear that if he was to live in her city, he would do it in style if he expected her to associate with him. And now that he could finally afford to live in a bit of luxury, he really had no excuse not to. It was all in the name of new experiences after all. 

Of course, he sent a lot of money home to his parents, and Stanley, and Mabel especially, until they had all stopped accepting any more, insisting that they now had enough to live comfortably, and that he deserved every measly penny he earned. Well, all of them had stopped accepting money except Stanley, but even he was starting to hint, albeit with obvious internal conflict, that Dipper could cut back on the checks if he wanted to. None of them seemed to realize just how important they had been to the seeds of the story that would grow into _The Dark Woods_. Mabel alone deserved half of whatever Dipper got. 

But unlike his own childhood, his protagonist’s was not a happy one. Dipper had taken his wonderful, sunlit summers exploring the beautiful backwoods of Oregon and twisted them into a dark and tangled thicket that ultimately led the reader into the depths of the human mind rather than the forest that the title promised. Almost everything in the book had come from his family if traced far enough back, but he didn’t think they would understand that inspiration, no matter where it led, was always a gift. They would look at themselves and wonder what Dipper, with his Bachelor’s in Psychology, had seen in them to come up with such a twisted cast of characters. So he would probably never tell them that they had been his inspiration, and he would let them go on thinking that he was being too generous. 

He stared down once more at the blank page threaded through the beautiful, shining black machine that had been a graduation present from his father. He had written _The Dark Woods_ on this machine, and now it was sitting there, waiting patiently for him to hammer out another bestseller. It wasn’t the typewriter’s fault that the writer had nothing to type.   

He petted the side of the machine fondly. “I’m sorry I contemplated defenestrating you,” he said. “You’re just too good for me, dear.” 

He tried to recall the long list of psychological disorders characterized by talking to inanimate objects. None of them were good, that much was certain. Besides, it was far too early to be surrendering to the blank page. What would Hemingway say? 

Probably something like _Just write the damned thing._

Easy for Hemingway to say. 

But Dipper was not giving up. He just needed a break from his typewriter, his desk, his apartment. As Pacifica had telephoned to remind him earlier that morning, he had not come to New York City to sit alone in his home. He could do plenty of that back in California. He had come to the big, bustling city for a shock to his system, and right now, that was just what he needed. It was time to take Pacifica up on her offer to show him the town. Somewhere out there, new inspiration was waiting for him. He just had to find it. 

o~~o

“ _Finally_ , Dipper. It’s only been _four days_ since you got here,” Pacifica said, leaning across and holding open the passenger side door of her ridiculously ostentatious silver Bentley and beckoning him inside. 

Dipper hurried to comply, clutching his bowler hat and wool coat against the evening autumn breeze as he ducked into the automobile. “I know, I’m sorry, Pacifica,” he said, as heartfelt as he could manage while wringing his numb fingers back to life. This East Coast weather would take some getting used to. “I had to unpack all of my things, and then I wanted to see if I couldn’t get a jump on the new book before indulging in some fun.”

“That’s no excuse to make yourself as scarce as America’s Most Wanted,” Pacifica scolded. “Really, Dipper, even you have to eat. Please tell me you’ve at least gone out to dinner.”

“There’s a really swell restaurant in my building, actually,” Dipper defended himself weakly. 

“America’s Most Wanted aren’t all that scarce anymore,” a musical, feminine voice piped up from the backseat. “The top five guys on the list are members of the Cipher family, and they’re always around. I even saw Bill Cipher himself once.”

“And there she goes again,” another voice droned, still feminine, but distinctly lower and more textured than the first. 

Dipper turned in his seat to take in the two young women sitting behind them. The one on the right, to whom the first voice belonged, was a cute, petite strawberry blonde with a sharp bob cut and glittering green eyes. She wore a beaded peach-colored dress that complimented her peaches and cream complexion. Her companion had darker skin, and wore pheasant feathers in her short, chestnut hair. Her dress was a striking shade of emerald, bringing out the color in her hazel eyes. Her lipstick was such a deep red that it might have been intimidating if not for her warm smile. 

“I swear, it’s true!” the blonde continued excitedly, clearly not deterred by her friend. “He was having dinner at Hendrick’s, laughing with two of his lackeys at one of the booths in the back, cool as you please. I wasn’t about to stare, but they had a couple of cello cases with them, and I’d bet you each a sawbuck there weren’t no cellos in them.”

“You sound just like the tabloids,” Pacifica accused. She was still the obvious star of the show, her long, pin-straight, platinum blonde hair – now pinned up in an elaborate hairdo encompassed by a delicate silver circlet – nearly matching the color of her sparkling silver dress. Like her friends’ dresses, hers had a drop waist, as was the style, but it was elegant in its simplicity, classically beautiful. “And don’t be rude, introduce yourselves.”

Despite his own glad rags that Pacifica had had sent over to his apartment the day of his arrival, Dipper felt more than a little out of place.

“Oops, sorry about that!” the blonde chimed, looking bashfully at Dipper. “I’m Laila.” 

The brunette inclined her head next. “Mina.” 

Dipper kissed the back of each of their gloved hands as they were offered, and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you ladies. My name’s Dipper. Pacifica and I have been friends since we were children.”

“A gentleman,” Mina said, one darkly penciled eyebrow arched. 

Pacifica scoffed. “Dipper? Don’t let him fool you, girls. Spend enough time with him and you’ll come to know the same awkward, antisocial bookworm that I do. He really hasn’t changed much in twelve years.”

“Dipper…” Laila said ponderously. “You can’t be… Certainly you’re not Dipper Pines, the famous author?”

“Um, I am, actually,” Dipper laughed nervously, carding his fingers through the unruly hair at the back of his neck.  

“There he is,” Pacifica said with a sly smile under her breath.

He shot her a look without any bite. “Have you read my book?” he asked Laila over his shoulder. 

“ _Read_ it? I _devoured_ it! The ending chilled me to the bone,” she said excitedly. 

“Now where he gets that inner darkness of his, I’ve no idea,” Pacifica said.  

“Would it doom our budding friendship if I asked you to autograph my copy of _The Dark Woods_?” Laila asked.  

“Not at all,” Dipper chuckled. “Bring it along next time we see each other.”

Laila giggled delicately. “Oh, thank you ever so much.”

“Any friend of Pacifica’s that she deems me worthy of associating with is a friend of mine,” he assured her. 

She giggled again, and was joined by quiet snickers from Mina’s corner.  

“Very funny, Dipper,” Pacifica deadpanned. “I’m not _that_ controlling.”

“Need I recount the events of your Sweet Sixteen?” Dipper countered. 

“You need _not_ ,” Pacifica all but hissed. 

“It sounds to me like Dipper and Tom have some stories to swap,” Mina said conspiratorially. 

Pacifica blushed ever so slightly at the mention of her fiancée. But when she leveled the full force of her ice blue gaze on Dipper, it was nothing short of frightening. “When that meeting finally happens, I hope Dipper remembers that I have far more blackmail on him than he has on me, and that the Northwest family has friends at the highest-circulating newspapers in the nation.” 

Dipper gulped. “Of course. So, uh, where are we going?”

“To the blind tigers, of course!” Laila cried. 

Dipper swallowed harder. “You mean speakeasies? But– Those joints are illegal.”

The car erupted with laughter. “Don't be such a bluenose. You wanted a taste of big city life, Dipper Pines,” Pacifica finally said, dabbing a tear from the corner of her eye with the tip of her white satin glove.  

“Yes, the big city, not the big house,” Dipper protested. “And even if we don’t get arrested, moonshine is dangerous. Old Man McGucket went blind and half insane from the stuff back home.”

“Relax,” Pacifica sighed. “We only patronize the establishments with class, where they don’t serve any of that coffin varnish. And we’ll only stop by the independent ones tonight.” 

"Independent...from whom?" Dipper was almost afraid to ask.

"The mob," Laila whispered in a delightedly conspiratorial tone.

“Oh, that makes me feel _so_ much better,” said Dipper. “I thought the papers were just being sensationalist. Does the mafia really have that great a hold here?”  

“The Cipher gang practically runs this town,” Mina said matter-of-factly. “I think they’ve even got Jimmy Walker in their pocket. But they generally save their lead for rival gangs. They may strong arm a few business owners here and there, but there’s profit to be had in good public opinion. You get used to them, really. As long as you keep your distance.” 

“Well I certainly wasn’t planning on chatting up a couple of mafiosi and inviting them to lunch.” Dipper couldn’t quite decide whether to laugh or shiver at the idea.  

“Then you’ll do just fine,” Pacifica said. “We’re here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sawbuck - $10  
> glad rags - expensive/special occasion clothes  
> blind tiger - speakeasy  
> bluenose - prude, square  
> coffin varnish - bootleg alcohol that was usually poisonous  
> lead - bullets


	2. Liar. Monster. Snappy Dresser.

They had pulled up to a nondescript brick building with high arched windows that glowed with warm light from within. There was no sign over the door, but Pacifica said the place was called The Peregrine. As if in confirmation, the silhouette of a falcon was picked out in black and white mosaic on the floor of the entryway. The old, industrial walls were thick, but as they approached the building, Dipper could just make out the din of music from inside. It was brassy and upbeat, and altogether, the speakeasy exuded a much more inviting atmosphere than Dipper had expected. 

He’d envisioned a small, derelict place at the end of a dark alley with a slider at eye-level on a battered metal door, from which a bloodshot pair of eyes would examine them and a voice would demand, gruffly, “Password?”

Instead, at Pacifica’s sharp knock, the door opened ajar, and warm yellow light spilled out onto the pavement. A smooth, feminine voice inquired from the other side, “What’s the password, doll?”

“The centre cannot hold,” Pacifica replied confidently.

It took Dipper a moment to remember where he had heard the phrase before, until he recalled that he had never _heard_ it, but had read it. It was a line from one of Yeats’ poems, and recalling the context, he smiled. 

_Turning and turning in the widening gyre_  
_The falcon cannot hear the falconer;  
_ _Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold…_

A clever, if ominous password for a speakeasy called The Peregrine. There was certainly more to these places than Dipper had thought. 

“Welcome to The Peregrine,” the woman said in a warm, sultry voice, opening the door for them. 

As he stepped through the door, Dipper’s senses were immediately overwhelmed, and he had to blink slowly a few times before he could take it all in. There was a big brass band on a stage at the back playing loud, rousing jazz, and many of the patrons were dancing with abandon to the swift, lilting beat on the dance floor below. They shimmied and kicked up their feet in complicated patterns, some in large groups, some in pairs, all of them laughing and smiling. To Dipper it looked like barely organized chaos, a riot of sound and color. 

To the left was a long bar of warm, polished cherrywood with dark green leather stools and rows of colored bottles up on the wall. The bartender, a tall, dark-haired man in an immaculate waistcoat, trousers and a crisp white shirt, bustled back and forth behind the bar, ferrying cocktails both simple and exotic to his patrons. Despite the high demand for his services, he took the time to punch the bag a bit with each customer, and kept a friendly and unharried demeanor. Other patrons sat sipping their drinks and watching the dancers at small tables that ringed the room. The scent of rich cigar smoke and the slight bite of alcohol hung in the air, and above it all presided three enormous crystal chandeliers that bathed everything in a heady golden light. 

“Come on, you Reuben,” Pacifica said, taking Dipper’s arm and pulling him with her to where her friends had already settled at one of the tables along the wall. She sat him down in one of the remaining chairs, before announcing that she would go order drinks. “First round is on me. What will you all be having?”

“A Gin Rickey for me, please,” Laila said. 

“I’ll have a Paradise,” Mina said. 

Dipper looked up at Pacifica helplessly. “Uh, I’ll have what you’re having?”

Pacifica chuckled. “Dipper, what I’m having will put you under the table. I know what to get you. Trust me, you’ll like it.” And with that, she was gone, making her way through the crowd towards the bar as confidently as if she owned the place. Come to think of it, Dipper wouldn’t have been surprised if she did. 

A minute after she returned, a waiter appeared beside their table carrying a silver tray of four colorful cocktails. Each of the girls claimed theirs – a sunny yellow one for Mina, a frosty green one with a lime wedge for Laila, and a deep amber-red one with a cherry at the bottom for Pacifica – and Dipper took the remaining pale yellow one with a curl of lemon peel by process of elimination. As his companions took their first sips, Dipper looked cautiously down at his own drink.

He had had alcohol only once before, as the Volstead Act had been passed while he’d still been underage, and unlike his sister, he hadn’t been one to go out to the rubs where underage drinking was common. The one drink he had had was on his and Mabel’s twenty-first birthday, when their great uncle Stanley had insisted on pouring them each a glass of aged whiskey from his liquor cabinet hidden behind a swinging shelf in the pantry of his cabin in the woods at the edge of a little Oregon town called Gravity Falls. It had tasted so bitter that Dipper had barely been able to swallow two sips of the stuff before giving up. Mabel did only slightly better, finishing just over half the glass before throwing in the towel with her twin. 

Dipper knew that cocktails were meant to be more palatable than straight-up liquor, but he couldn’t imagine that the addition of sugar and fruity trimmings would make that underlying bitterness dramatically more pleasant. “What’s in this one?” he asked Pacifica. 

Pacifica rolled her eyes, but answered, “It’s called a [Bee’s Knees](http://museicbox.tumblr.com/post/155217588227/found-a-bees-knees-the-other-day-at-fortnum). It’s mostly gin, but it has a lot of honey and lemon juice in it, too. Just try it. If you don’t like it, I’m sure Laila will finish it.”

Dipper glanced over at Laila to see that her glass was already nearing empty, and her cheeks were already tinted a light rose. She giggled into her glove and nodded, before lowering her hand to say, “Sure, I’d be happy to, Dipper,” and also to pick up her glass and tip back the rest of her drink. 

Dipper sighed and picked up his own drink. It smelled sweet enough that he could almost trick himself into thinking it was lemonade. With a final skeptical glance at Pacifica, he took a small sip. The drink coated his tongue with a cool warmth, and the alcohol and sugar tickled his throat a little on the way down, but the cocktail was, to his surprise, really quite delicious. He took another, longer sip. Pacifica smiled, catlike. 

After another round of drinks, Dipper felt as though that same, tingling warmth was slowly trickling down to his core, and setting the blood just beneath his skin delightfully abuzz. Normally reserved in social situations, his tongue felt looser, and he found himself speaking freely about his and Pacifica’s shared childhood at the other women's behest. He even shared the story of Pacifica’s Sweet Sixteen, which had adhered so militaristically to a set schedule of events that there had been a time slot for “the partaking of cake.” Pacifica, in retaliation, shared a story involving Dipper in a certain lamb costume being coerced into performing a certain corresponding dance, which clammed Dipper up quickly. Between the two of them, they soon had their companions in stitches.

Not long after that, Laila and Mina dragged Dipper out onto the dance floor while Pacifica signaled to a hovering couple that their table was free, leaving Dipper with no avenue of escape. Despite the alcohol making him slightly more amenable to the normally mortifying idea of dancing in public, after a few numbers, Dipper found that he just couldn’t keep up with the hectic pace of it all. He could see how the music and dance could be fun, given more exposure and practice, but the whole juice joint scene was brand new to him, and he was beginning to find the crowd and noise exhausting. Pacifica seemed to understand when he excused himself to go find an empty seat at the bar where he could remove himself from the fray somewhat. Besides, another sugary cocktail couldn’t hurt his social stamina. 

He sat at the end of the bar and took out his pocket notebook and fountain pen to begin making some notes on the night’s experiences. A speakeasy like The Peregrine would make for an interesting setting, and Laila and Mina were a couple of characters already. Dipper wouldn’t dare write Pacifica into one of his novels, as there would almost certainly be consequences, probably in the form of deportation back to California and a government ban on his books.

He was sipping his drink and pondering the wrath of the bearcat that was Pacifica Northwest when his eyes landed on a couple of fellas sitting at the corner table nearby. None of the other patrons seemed to be paying them any mind, but the manner in which everyone else in the joint was pointedly _not_ looking toward that corner was almost conspicuous. They all wore dark, pinstripe or checked suits, and kept their hats on indoors, the wide brims casting their eyes in shadow. There was definitely something hinky about them, and that was before Dipper noticed the two cello cases propped up against the wall behind the table. They couldn’t really be mobsters, could they? Discussing business out in the open like that? But then again, what was it Laila had said? _America’s Most Wanted aren’t all that scarce anymore._

Dipper quickly looked down at the bar top, scratching a few more absentminded notes, but his curiosity soon pulled his gaze back to that corner table. The man who was speaking seemed to command the undivided attention and respect of the other two, although he looked the youngest, not possibly over thirty.He had the strangest two-tone, black and blonde hair that couldn’t have been natural, and his shiny, patent leather Oxfords were rather ostentatiously tipped with gold, setting off the gold buttons on his waistcoat. Dipper still couldn’t see his eyes, but something about the man seemed vaguely familiar, like a dream. 

He ducked his head again and started to take notes on the strange new characters, suddenly filled with excitement at the prospect that he might be sitting not ten yards from a gang of notorious, cold-blooded killers. His morbid fascination with the men was probably a product of his “inner darkness,” as Pacifica had called it. But he preferred to think of it as an unflinching sense of curiosity and imagination. He led a happy, comfortable, and generally uneventful life. He wanted to know what else was out there, where else life could have led him. It was that same drive that had led him to write  _The Dark Woods_. 

Between one glance at the table and the next, the leader of the men had disappeared. Dipper began to scan the room to see where he might have gone, but he was interrupted when a black-gloved hand landed heavily on his shoulder. He might have fallen off his barstool had the man’s grip not been so firm.

“You don’t look like a copper,” came a rather high, but unmistakably masculine voice with a lazy hint of a southern drawl and…was that an echo? The faint scents of cigar smoke, scorched sand and gunpowder were shaken from the man's clothing as he tangibly shifted his weight to his other foot behind Dipper to regard him from a different angle. “A newshawk, then?” A woman had started up on a soft, husky cabaret number on stage, so Dipper could hear every word without the man having to raise his voice above the music.

“N-no!” Dipper forced out past his panic, sobering up quickly as his heart hammered blood and adrenaline through his veins. “I’m no reporter! And no cop neither!”

“Then why’ve you been watchin’ me an’ my boys? More importantly, why shouldn’t I tell them to take ya ‘round the alley out back an’ fill ya with daylight?” 

Dipper looked helplessly to his left and right, but the other patrons nearest him had vacated their seats, and the bartender was busying himself down at the other end of the bar. So, despite his better judgement, he chanced a look over his shoulder at the man behind him. His eyes – well, eye – was now visible under the brim of his fedora. Over his right eye he wore a black patch with a stylized eye picked out in gold stitching. His left eye, however, was what arrested Dipper’s attention. The iris was the most unnatural golden yellow color, and the pupil was slit like a cat’s. Was this a man at all, or…something else? 

The thought sent a thrill of equal parts fear and excitement through Dipper, and yet, at the back of his mind, the nagging thought persisted that there was something familiar about this strange and frightening man. “Have we met before?” he asked dazedly, forgetting for a moment the fact that the man had just threatened to have him gunned down in a back alley. 

The man smiled, but it was more predatory than friendly. “Maybe in a past life. Or a future one. Time’s a tricky thing. But you haven’t answered my question. Spill.”

“Oh, uh, I’m a writer– a novelist,” Dipper said quickly, deciding that telling the truth was his best chance at survival. Or rather, that lying to the likes of this man, or not-man, would be as good as signing his own death warrant. “I just came in here to dip the bill with a couple of friends, honest. You can look through my notes if you like. The last few are about you and your, uh, friends, but I don’t think there’s anything in there that could put any of you in a tight spot. If there is, I’ll burn it right here while you watch.” Dipper carefully pulled his cigarette lighter from his waistcoat pocket and slid it along with his notebook across to the man to back up his peace offering.

The man placed his gloved hand over the items, but didn’t pick them up. Instead, he looked down the bar at the bartender, who came over immediately and asked if he would like anything. "Gimme a sidecar, will ya, mac?" The bartender nodded and busied himself fixing a golden yellow drink with a dusting of sugar around the rim of the glass. When he was done, he passed it across the bar to the man and then dusted out as quickly as he'd appeared. The man didn't pay for the drink, and the bartender didn't ask him to. “If you came to this joint with friends, why’re you sitting here like a cancelled stamp?" he asked Dipper, while leisurely sipping at his cocktail. "Did they blow without ya?”

Dipper weighed the risks of pointing out his friends to the mobster with the benefits of providing evidence that his absence would soon be missed if the man decided to leave his corpse in the alley. He once again returned to the conclusion that lying would be a bad idea in this situation. “No, that’s them over by the coat check, trying not to stare at us like we’re necking in church.” 

Mina was doing an admirable job at keeping a straight face, though her concern showed through as she looked to Pacifica, who was obviously struggling with her desire to extract Dipper from a dangerous situation on the one hand, and the desire not to make things any worse, coupled with her own self-preservation instincts, on the other. Laila was staring quite openly, her jaw practically resting on the floor. 

“You sure do know how to turn a phrase,” the man murmured, his breath hot down the back of Dipper’s neck, and a whole new kind of excitement that was entirely unwanted slithered its way just beneath Dipper’s flesh. “But to count dames like that among ‘friends’, you must be a real cake-eater.”

“Th-they’re just friends,” Dipper sputtered, flushing. 

The man chuckled. “If you say so.” He picked up the notebook and began skimming the last page while flicking Dipper’s lighter open and closed absentmindedly in his other hand. The flame that sprung to life each time was a vibrant, etherial shade of blue. The man gave another amused chuckle. “You think I’m ‘roguish’ and ‘mysterious,’ ‘like the shadow slumbering beneath a welcoming lit window on a cold night’? I believe you about the writer business, at least.” He flipped both the notebook and lighter closed and placed them back down on the bar top. Finally, he leaned his weight lazily against the bar to address Dipper face-to-face, while giving a cheeky little wave to Pacifica and the others over Dipper’s shoulder. “Anything I would have heard of?”

Again, Dipper hesitated to give any personal information to a gangster, but the man had a unique way of making Dipper feel like he had no other choice in the matter. “ _The Dark Woods_?” Dipper hazarded, hoping the man didn’t read much. 

His face registered a flash of genuine surprise before he schooled his features once more into his usual crooked smile. “No kidding, you’re Dipper Pines?”

Well, hope springs eternal, but sometimes the water runs brackish. “The one and only,” Dipper said, and just avoided saying it on a sob. “Have you…read my book?”

“Oh, pos-i-lute-ly! I must admit, I was skeptical about all the hype at first, but you’ve got a keen insight into the human psyche, kid.” He clapped Dipper on the shoulder again. Dipper flinched. 

“Th-thanks,” Dipper managed to not-quite squeak. This whole conversation was getting very surreal. 

“You writin’ about us trouble boys next?” the man asked with a sharp, manic sort of grin. Apparently, even the mafia was expecting another novel out of him. 

“No!” Dipper said quickly. “At least, I wasn’t planning to.” Truth be told, if he survived his first encounter with one, the "trouble boys" of New York City might make a very interesting subject indeed.

The man’s smile only grew wider. “Well, I’m not the writer here, but even I know what they say about the best laid plans.” He regarded Dipper with a new interest now, one that Dipper wasn’t entirely sure what he had done to encourage, nor what kind of consequences it might have for him down the line. “To a country boy like you, though,” the man continued thoughtfully, “the big, bad city must seem a scary place. Drop me a dime if you ever need something scarier on your side.” He pulled out a black and gold business card and scrawled a telephone number on the back with a gold fountain pen, then slipped it into Dipper’s breast pocket with a cheerful pat. Finally, he straightened up and smoothed out his attire. “It's been swell jawing with ya, mac.”

He tipped his hat to Dipper and began to walk back to his corner table where the other men were still waiting patiently for his return, while regarding Dipper with expressions of mild bemusement. 

“Wait, I…” Dipper said quietly, standing himself. 

The man turned on his heel and favored him with another crooked smile. “Yes, Pine Tree?”

Dipper frowned at the odd nickname, but forced himself to continue. “I don’t even know who you are.”

“You don’t?” The notion seemed to amuse the man more than anything, and his smile turned almost genuine. “Name’s Bill Cipher. Pleased to meet ya.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> punch the bag - make small talk  
> Reuben - country bumpkin  
> rub - a student party  
> clam up - shut up  
> juice joint - speakeasy  
> bearcat - a fiery girl  
> hinky - suspicious  
> newshawk - reporter  
> fill with daylight - riddle full of holes, esp. by shooting  
> dip the bill - have a drink  
> cancelled stamp - wallflower  
> dust out - leave  
> blow - leave  
> cake-eater - lady’s man [only later did it come to be a derogatory term for homosexuals; no offense is meant here in its contemporary usage]  
> trouble boys - gansters  
> drop a dime - to call (telephone)  
> jaw - to talk


	3. How Long to Wait to Call a Gangster After He Gives You His Number

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may change the title later, but I couldn't resist.

Dipper was still reeling as he watched Bill Cipher, head of the most notorious crime family in the country, stroll out onto the street flanked by his two hatchet men, cello cases swinging at their sides. The whole joint seemed to let out a collective sigh of relief when the door swung shut behind the dangerous trio. Another big, rousing jazz number started up on stage, conversations resumed throughout the room, and the men and women who had abandoned their places at the bar reclaimed their seats, some of them giving Dipper sympathetic looks, others eyeing him with something closer to suspicion. Dipper, meanwhile, continued to stare dumbly at the door for a moment, before fishing out a half from his pocket and dropping it onto the bar top next to Cipher’s empty glass, figuring that ought to cover the cost of the mafioso’s drink. After all, he didn’t want the bartender or the fine establishment to pay for his own idiocy. 

Pacifica, Mina and Laila were on him the next second, Pacifica barking questions and insults to his intelligence, Mina silently looking him over – for injuries, he presumed – and Laila chattering excitedly about his brush with “the Devil himself.”

Dipper had to step back from the bar to regain a bit of personal space. “Everything’s Jake,” he assured them, hands raised in a placating gesture (and also to aid Mina in her examination, so she could see for herself that Cipher hadn’t, in fact, slipped a chiv between his ribs). “Really, we just…talked.”

“What on earth did you and _Bill Cipher_ have to talk about?” Pacifica demanded. 

“He, uh, he told me he liked my book. And…he gave me his telephone number, I think?” Dipper said, remembering the card in his pocket. 

“Says you! Lemme see,” Laila said excitedly. 

Dipper removed the card and looked at it closely for the first time. It was black on one side, with gold lettering that spelled, **The Gold-Bug** , in a tall, curling font. The name was taken from [an Edgar Allan Poe story](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Gold-Bug) if Dipper wasn’t mistaken. Below that was an address, 666 Gold Street, and Dipper found himself wondering how much money Cipher had forked over – or who he had bumped off – for that address. He was also getting the impression that the man had a color scheme. The back of the card was a matte gold, with nothing but Cipher’s telephone number scrawled across it in black ink and a surprisingly elegant hand.  

He handed the card to Laila, whose eyes widened as she turned it over and over again in her hands. Mina peered over Laila’s shoulder, but tried to be subtle about it. Pacifica glared at the card as if it personally offended her.  

“You should burn that card, Dipper,” she said. “Good people have no business with Bill Cipher.”

“Pacifica’s right,” Mina said. “That man’s off the track. He’ll fog you as soon as smile at you. Cipher’s a wrong number, Dipper.”

Laila was pouting by this point, and she clutched the card protectively to her chest before handing it pointedly back to Dipper. “I think you two are overreacting a little. Maybe the guy’s just a fan of Dipper’s work. Besides, if he gave Dipper his personal telephone number, he’d probably take offense if Dipper didn’t at least give him a ring to show his appreciation for the gesture. If you ask me, the man’s good side seems like a much better place to be than his bad one. So what if he’s a little screwy?” 

“You forgot murderous,” Mina said blandly. 

“Fine, he kills people,” Laila sighed in exasperation, rolling her eyes. “But he doesn’t compulsively fill with lead anything that crosses his path. Dipper’s proof of that!”

“You’re just keen on the guy,” Mina said, eyes narrowing. 

A deep blush spread over Laila’s pale cheeks. “Am not!” she cried. 

Dipper felt his own face heat up at the memory of his sudden and unwelcome interest in the mobster after he’d teased Dipper, his mouth inches from Dipper’s vertebrae. He found himself sympathetic to Laila’s predicament; the man really was quite handsome, despite his…unusual features. Features that no one else seemed to know about, probably because few others had been close enough to look into the man’s eyes and walk away to tell of it. 

Dipper certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone. He didn’t need Pacifica thinking he was crazier than she did already. 

“Lay off, Mina,” Pacifica said sharply. “This isn’t a joke.” She then turned her icy gaze on Dipper, and he shivered. “We’re both adults, so I’m not going to stop you from making a stupid decision. But please, Dipper, if you decide to call that number, call mine first. Maybe I can talk some sense into you. And if not, at least I’ll know where to point the cops when they find your stiff face-down in the East River.”

“That’s assuming Cipher doesn’t already own the cops,” Mina said. 

“You all know I haven’t actually weighed in on the matter, right?” Dipper huffed irritably. The three women looked at him expectantly, and he had to massage the rising headache in his temples before he spoke again. “I have to sleep on this, alright? I know he’s dangerous, but Laila has a point. The last thing I want to do is tick off a mob boss by failing to at least pay him the proper respect.”

“A man like that doesn’t deserve respect,” Pacifica said. 

“Any man who carries a gat and isn’t afraid to use it deserves respect,” Dipper said plainly. 

Pacifica’s eyes sparked like the sun flaring off a glacier, but she said nothing. She turned on her heel and led the way to the door, assuming – correctly – that the rest of them would follow. The drive back to Dipper’s place was tense. Laila was obviously brimming with questions, but Mina effectively kept her silent on the matter with a repertoire of truly masterful _looks_. Pacifica, for her part, gripped the steering wheel tightly with her gloved hands, and kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead, her mouth set in a thin line. Which left Dipper to twiddle his thumbs nervously in the passenger seat as he gazed out the window.

The city really was beautiful at night. He could almost forget about his brief encounter with Bill Cipher and slip into a trance of flashing marquis lights, shining automobiles and a passing parade of men in their evening suits and women in glittering dresses wrapped in furs, but the dark, looming presence of the tall buildings on either side turned the city sinister. Tonight the skyscrapers seemed like the walls of a labyrinth, one that Dipper was locked inside with a very dangerous creature indeed. 

When they finally pulled up in front of his building, he moved quickly to push open the door and step out, but Pacifica called his name sharply as soon as he set one foot on the pavement. 

He froze. “Yeah?” he asked, awkwardly hovering half in and half out of the automobile.

“He didn’t offer you any kind of deal, did he?” Pacifica asked.

Dipper replayed his and Cipher’s conversation in his head. “Uh, no, I don’t think so. Why?” Dipper was left wondering to himself what exactly it was that Cipher _had_ offered. 

“Good,” Pacifica said on a short exhale. “If Bill Cipher ever offers you a deal, don’t take it. At least promise me that.” She met Dipper’s eyes, and her gaze was no longer harsh. It was now only pleading. 

Dipper couldn’t be sure, but he got the feeling Pacifica was talking about something more than the mafia’s usual rackets. And that she knew more about Bill Cipher than she was letting on. But it was not the time to press her on it. “Okay. I promise, Pacifica.” After all, it wasn’t like Dipper was desperate, imbecilic or suicidal enough to make a deal with a mob boss in the first place. 

Some of the tension visibly left her at Dipper’s words. “Thank you. Goodnight, Dipper.” 

Dipper took the hint and closed the door, after which Pacifica pulled the Bentley immediately out into traffic, leaving Laila and Mina to wave farewell to Dipper through the back window. Suddenly feeling utterly exhausted, Dipper made his way inside, his collar pulled up against the chill night air. The doorman – Conrad, Dipper thought his name was – greeted him with a sympathetic nod rather than inquiring about his day or commenting on the weather as per usual. Dipper returned his look with one of immense appreciation as he dragged his feet across the tiled floor of the empty lobby. The numbness of the alcohol was starting to come back to him now, and the most he could manage with the elevator operator, whose name escaped him entirely, was a muttered, “Evening.”

The elevator man smiled and looked him over as they rose together to the tenth floor. “Looks like it was one heck of a party, Mr. Pines.” He winked. 

Dipper gave a tired smile and was immensely relieved when the elevator chimed his floor. Once he was back in his penthouse apartment, he barely had the energy to pull off his coat, shoes and jacket before collapsing face-down across his embarrassingly large but lusciously downy bed. He groaned into the sapphire blue duvet in half-hearted frustration. He couldn’t even find it in himself to be properly sore over the matter. He had gone out looking for excitement, and New York City had given it to him in spades. It was poetic justice, really. The writer in him couldn’t help but grimly appreciate the irony. He just hoped that his failure to immediately respond to a run-in with the mob with the appropriate levels of fear and disgust wouldn’t keep him in the doghouse with Pacifica for too long. Sleepily, he decided to phone her tomorrow morning to apologize, though for what, he wasn’t exactly sure. And afterwards, perhaps, he would phone Cipher. After all, he didn’t want to keep the man waiting. 

_Dipper couldn’t remember dreaming so vividly in all his life. Around him was the vast forest surrounding Gravity Falls, Oregon – he would know it anywhere. But the trees seemed as tall as skyscrapers, and the midday sun barely reached the forest floor. He began to follow one of the old paths through the woods that he had mapped out in his childhood, using a notebook – no, a_ journal _– for reference. He knew then that if he flipped through the pages of the worn, leather-bound book, he would see sketches and notes on a whole array of creatures that didn’t exist anywhere else in the world, and shouldn’t, by all the laws of nature and probability, exist at all. He knew, too, that these woods were a place of magic, where such laws of nature and probability had little dominion. He could feel it now, that magic, vibrant and alive within the creatures that called the woods their home. Some of those creatures were dangerous, and he realized he probably shouldn’t have wandered so far into the woods alone, that Mabel should have been with him. But there was something he was looking for that he needed to find, so he kept walking._

_It was only when he squinted up to catch a glimpse of the sun’s position in the clear, blue sky through the green treetops that he realized that the trees were neither green, nor the sky blue. In fact, there was no color at all wherever he looked; he had just assumed that there was. Like a movie, everything was in shades of black and white. And he knew, like he knew about the magic and like he knew that he was dreaming, that there was something out there, watching him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hatchet men - killers, gunmen  
> a half - 50¢  
> Jake - OK, fine  
> off the track - insanely violent  
> fog - shoot  
> wrong number - bad news  
> keen on - to find attractive or appealing  
> gat - gun


	4. Unpleasant Business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long update gap. As I said in the notes for Chapter 1, I'm very busy with school, so updates will probably be slow for the most part. Thank you for all your encouraging comments; they've given me a lot of confidence with this tricky fic. I hope you continue to enjoy it, and I promise Bill will make another appearance very soon ;)

Despite getting back late the night before, Dipper awoke at the crack of dawn. Immediately, he pulled on his dressing gown over last night’s clothes, padded out into the study and sat down at his typewriter. The walls of the study were almost entirely obscured by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, with the exception of a hearth at one end, which Dipper had never used, and an antique mahogany desk at the other, which Dipper had barely left since he’d gotten the place. Bookworm though he was, he hadn’t even come close to reading all of the books in that room. But just by having them around, by gazing across the resonant names and titles and by breathing in the smells of paper, leather and ink, he almost felt like he could absorb some of the vast stores of knowledge and insight locked between their pages.

That morning, however, Dipper needed no dubious alchemical assistance from his books. His experiences from the night before had blended with memories from his childhood and other, stranger experiences that felt like memories but couldn’t possibly have been real, all in a vivid dream realm. Out of this potent melange had arisen _ideas_ , like the first life forms from the primordial sea. Was it an aftereffect of the alcohol? He _had_ had three cocktails on a more or less empty stomach, but his headache that morning was mild, and faded almost as soon as he began writing. As his fingers flew nearly effortlessly across the keys, he thought that it felt more like inspiration from the muses themselves. 

To Dipper’s mild dismay, the story that was taking shape in his mind and on the page did indeed involve gangsters, and if he was being honest, it didn’t merely involve them. In fact, a character conspicuously close to his impression of Bill Cipher was demanding a rather prominent role for himself. Dipper supposed that was right in line with the character of the man himself. Then he frowned, reminding himself that he knew very little about Cipher’s character after a single brief encounter with the man, and wondering why he'd felt that he _had_ known such a thing. 

The next time Dipper looked down at his wristwatch, it was ten o’clock, the perfect hour to catch Pacifica after she’d gotten her beauty sleep and before she left her Sands Point mansion to set out on the town. Dipper figured he ought to let up on the writing anyway, or he’d run this sudden, strange well of inspiration dry. Besides, there was only so much he could write about the illicit underbelly of New York City without further research. 

Stretching, he stood and made his way to the telephone in the hall. He leaned his shoulder against the wall and dialed Pacifica’s number. After a few rings, a smooth, male voice answered. 

“Northwest residence.”

Dipper would know that pretentious drawl anywhere. The Northwest butler was really a swell chap once you got to know him, but in order to maintain the family’s reputation, he had to play the part of a high hat. “Hey Charles, it’s Dipper. Is Pacifica available?”

“Certainly, Mr. Pines. If you’ll stay on a moment, I’ll fetch her.”

“Thanks.”

Dipper waited five minutes before Pacifica came to the telephone. She almost never bothered with the customary ‘how do you dos’ and such when talking with friends, and this time was no exception. “You aren’t about to do something stupid like give Cipher a call, are you?”

Dipper bit his tongue on that point. It was probably too late in the morning to call Bill Cipher anyway. The guy must keep himself pretty busy, what with all of that crime to manage. Dipper could always try to catch him in the evening if he still felt he had the fortitude. “Actually, I called to say I’m sorry, for all the trouble last night—“

Pacifica cut him off with a sharp sigh. “No, I’m sorry, Dipper. There’s no way you could have known…”

“That I was talking to a mobster? He wasn’t exactly subtle on that point.”

The line was silent for a moment. Dipper heard Pacifica exhale. “That’s not what I’m talking about. Listen, why don’t we meet for lunch? Say, 11:30, Café del Mar on Lexington Ave? There’s something I have to tell you that I’d rather not talk about over the phone.”

So there _was_ something Pacifica had been holding back the night before. And from her tone of voice, it wasn’t anything good. “S-sure, I’ll meet you there,” was all Dipper could come up with in response to the sudden invitation. 

“Swell. I’ll see you soon, Dipper.” Pacifica hung up, and the line went dead. 

Dipper hung the receiver back on the hook and scrambled to change into less formal, but nonetheless presentable clothes. He didn’t know how ritzy this Café del Mar was, but lunch couldn’t possibly require more from him than his nice chestnut wool vest and trousers, and a crisp shirt and bowtie. He folded his rumpled suit from the night before as best he could and laid it on the divan at the foot of his bed. He would take it down to the concierge to be pressed and cleaned later. 

As was to be expected, the Monday morning traffic rather resembled the road to Hell itself, but with notably fewer good intentions, and the dimbox jaunt across town took nearly an hour. He arrived at the café a few minutes late, probably few enough to be considered fashionable, but Pacifica, being the heiress to the vast Northwest Imports Company, was nothing if not punctual. He immediately approached the host and asked to be shown to Miss Northwest’s table. Only as he followed the host through the café did he take the time to take in his surroundings. The tall windows let in a wash of sunlight, opening up the building to the street outside and giving the place a light, airy atmosphere. Both the décor and the dishes had a distinctive Mediterranean flair. There was no doubt that the fare was expensive, but the establishment seemed to have taken great care to be casually luxurious, as if it would be terribly embarrassed to be caught trying too hard to impress. 

Pacifica was waiting for him at a private table beneath one of the far windows. Dressed in a white skirt and blouse, her pale blonde hair glowing in the natural light, she looked the part of an angel. _An angel of the Old Testament_ , Dipper amended, _when the angels were more disposed to smiting entire cities from the face of the earth than delivering baby news_. 

“Listen, Pacifica, I really am sorry,” Dipper said as he warily took the chair opposite his friend. “I hate it when you’re sore with me.”

“Me too, Dipper,” Pacifica said with one of her rare, kind smiles. She rested her chin in her silk-gloved hand wistfully. “But you make it so easy. You attract trouble. You and your sister both. Speaking of that girl, when is Mabel going to pay us a visit?”

“Aw, rhatz, I’ve been meaning to call her,” Dipper said. He dug the heel of his palm into his forehead in annoyance. “Soon, I expect. She’s eager to see that I’ve settled in and am not in the process of starving myself by trying to draw sustenance from ink on paper.”

“Well then, we should make a show of feeding you properly. I know, why don’t Tom and I take you two out for dinner at one of our favorite spots in town, our treat?”

“That would be awfully kind of you,” Dipper said. He knew better than to attempt to refuse Pacifica’s generosity by now. She was not one to take no for an answer. “Mabel’s dying to catch up with you, and we’re both very curious about the man who finally managed to capture your attention long enough to slip a ring on your finger while you weren’t looking.” Said ring, Dipper noted, bore a diamond the size of his great uncle's false molar. Not the stealthiest choice.

“Oh, dry up,” Pacifica chuckled. “I was fourteen when I made that grand declaration about never wanting to get married and share the company with some dull, dim-witted man.”

“I’ll try not to be offended,” Dipper said. 

Pacifica rolled her eyes. “Present company excepted, of course. Really, Dipper, you know it would have never worked between us. Most of the time, I feel like your second sister.”

“That’s a fair assessment of our relationship,” Dipper conceded. 

“Besides,” Pacifica went on, “you knew my parents at the time. They didn’t exactly inspire confidence in the institution of marriage.” That was also a fair assessment. Priscilla Northwest was something of a piece of work herself, and still it was no secret to those who knew the family that she hated Preston’s greedy, pompous guts. The two of them put ona good show in public, but if Northwest Manor’s walls could talk… “But then I met Tom,” Pacifica said.

“And the rest is vague, mysterious hearsay,” Dipper supplied. 

“I’m not deliberately being secretive about him,” Pacifica defended. “It wasn’t my fault you two were living on the other side of the country at the time. I would have invited him along today, but…” Her earlier playful smile all but vanished. “Well, what I have to tell you doesn’t make very good table conversation.”

“What is it, Pacifica?” Dipper asked, worried all over again. Carefully, he lowered his voice, despite none of the other tables being within earshot. “Does it have to do with Bill Cipher?”

Pacifica flinched at the name this time. “Yes.” With the expert timing that waiters everywhere seem to possess, theirs chose that moment to appear and ask for their orders. Without looking at her menu, Pacifica ordered out of habit, and Dipper frantically chose something at random from the selections. Only when the man had made his shallow bow and departure did Pacifica continue, her face closed off in a display of her eerie proclivity for making all of her emotions unreadable when she did not want them to be read. “When my father died last year, Mother and I told the press and everyone else that it was an automobile accident. That was what it looked like, after all. I really am sorry for lying to you and Mabel about it, but the truth would have only put you in danger. But now that you’ve already had a cozy little chat with that danger and bought him a drink, I don’t see what harm it can do. It might even save you from making the same stupid mistake as my father.”

“Was Preston involved with the mafia?” Dipper asked, incredulous even as he put the pieces together himself. 

Pacifica nodded. “Mother and I had no idea at the time. It wasn’t as if we needed the money. The company was doing just fine under the new laws. We’d found substitutes that made up for our losses from no longer being able to import alcohol. But you knew my father. Enough was never enough for him. When Bill Cipher approached him with a business proposition, the only question my father asked was ‘where do I sign?’ Behind Mother’s back, Father started up the booze import trade again, and the Cipher family was able to sell as much as Father was able to get his hands on in the Canadian and European markets. The family protected his shipments and made sure customs and cops looked the other way. He and Cipher split the profits fifty-fifty. For a few months, anyway. Then Father got dollar signs in his eyes again, and he called Cipher over to the mansion to negotiate a bigger cut. When Cipher got there, he reminded my father that he could hand him over to the cops and sink the company at any time, and Father got nervous and tried to back out of their deal entirely. He thought he had enough evidence on Cipher to turn his threat back on him and force Cipher to let him get out clean. That's when Cipher shot him. Put a bullet right between his eyes where he sat at his desk.” 

Dipper stared at his friend in horror, but Pacifica’s face was still as inscrutable as stone. “At least,” she continued, “that’s the story Cipher told me and Mother as he stood beside Father’s body, cleaning his gun while Father’s blood soaked the papers on his desk. He offered to make Father’s death look like an accident, to protect the company and our family name, and as a show of thanks for our profitable business partnership. Mother accepted without hesitating, but even she knew better than to take him up on his second offer of continuing to do business with the Cipher family. He didn’t threaten or press her on it. A few minutes later a couple of his grunts showed up to take away the body and clean up Father’s office. The only thing Cipher left behind was one of those damned gold-and-black cards with his telephone number on the back. 'In case you change your mind,' he said. Mother still keeps that card in a drawer, 'just in case'.” Finally, Pacifica looked Dipper in the eye, and her face twisted in anger. “My father was a coldhearted bastard, Dipper. But it takes a man with an even colder heart to kill another human being like that, unarmed and sitting in his own home with his wife and daughter sleeping down the hall.” Then, just as suddenly as her anger had flared, she snuffed it out. “Anyway,” she said cooly, “that’s the crop. Just remember that next time you cross paths with Bill Cipher.”

Dipper was speechless for a good few seconds, and then words tumbled from his mouth before Dipper knew what they would be. “I’m so sorry, Pacifica, just say the word and I’ll burn that card, I promise, I am so, so sorry.”

Pacifica silenced him when she said, “I think Laila's right.”

“W-what?” Dipper said, floundering.

“The man doesn’t take kindly to discourtesy. You should give him a call.”

Stunned, Dipper spent the rest of the meal in silence. Pacifica made no effort to revive the conversation. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> high hat - snob  
> dimbox jaunt - taxi ride  
> dry up - shut up, get lost  
> that’s the crop - that’s all of it


	5. The Lions' Den

That evening, Dipper stood in front of his telephone for a good twenty minutes, the receiver in one hand and Bill Cipher’s calling card in the other. He knew, logically, that bullets couldn’t travel through telephone lines, but that didn’t stop him from eyeing the receiver like he was looking down the barrel of a gun. Cipher had given him his number, so he must be expecting Dipper to call, but what if he caught the crime boss at a bad time? In a bad mood? What if he overheard something that made him a liability? And what in sweet Heaven’s name did Cipher want with him anyway? Could he really be just a fan of Dipper’s work? What if he actually hated the book and was plotting to personally put its author in the ground to prevent him from polluting the literary sphere with any more of his publications in the future? 

With a groan, Dipper knocked his head against the wall and let it rest there. “You’re being ridiculous, Dipper,” he said to the cream-colored wallpaper. “Just call the man, thank him for the gesture, but tell him you need nothing from him, and be polite about it. That’s all you have to do, and then you can forget any of this ever happened.” Lifting his head off the wall, Dipper quickly dialed the number on the back of the card before he could think about it any further. 

The tone sounded once, twice, and just as Dipper was convincing himself that Cipher wasn’t home and that he should hang up and call back another day, that unmistakeable voice was muttering in his ear, rapid-fire and annoyed, “I swear, Spoons, if you’ve lost your key to the cellar for the second time in five minutes I will throw you to the boys for target practice and personally haul your stiff into the clubhouse to collect the bounty on your head and we’ll all split it as a Christmas bonus.”

“M-Mister Cipher?” Dipper said, shrinking back against the wall.

Cipher’s tone changed entirely, and he sounded downright sunny when he said, “Oh, hiya, Pine Tree! Listen, you caught me just as I was heading out the door. How’s about you meet me in an hour at the address on that card I gave ya? It’s just our little family drum, but I have some business that needs tending to there. I’m looking forward to hearing about your new book. I’ll even show ya ‘round the place for your research if ya like. No scribbling down names and faces in that notebook of yours, of course, but you wouldn’t do that, would ya? ‘Course ya wouldn’t. See ya in a jiffy, kid!”

The line went dead, leaving Dipper holding the receiver to his ear, his mouth still open on the first syllable of “Hello.” After a minute, almost mechanically, he hung the receiver back on the hook and turned to walk down the hall to his bedroom to change into presentable evening clothes. 

o~~o

Dipper would not have described the place as a “little family drum.” The large and not-at-all inconspicuous building was done in the popular Egyptian revival style, with rectilinear columns to either side of the entrance, which was itself set into a false pylon topped with a winged scarab motif. The entire façade was black glazed brick with gold leaf accents and looked, in Dipper’s opinion, far too ostentatious to possibly be a hub of illicit activity. If not for the familiar color scheme, he might have wondered if he was in the right place. Loud, big band music poured from the open doors, and he could make out quite a crowd inside. Warily, seeing no sign of Cipher, Dipper stepped through the doors. 

The inside struck Dipper first as _cavernous_ , an impression probably owing to the very high ceiling and the walls and floor being made of something like polished basalt. To make up for the dark stone, the grout between tiles was overlaid with gold leaf, which seemed to glow under the many lamps lining the walls, and the enormous chandelier of sparkling crystal pieces hung in the shape of an inverted pyramid over the center of the room. Similar false, rectilinear columns to the ones on the façade lined the walls, giving the appearance of supporting the second level, which, as far as Dipper could see from below, was little more than a balcony around the perimeter of the room, along which tables and chairs were placed so that patrons could watch the dancers from above the fray. The band was playing on a highly elevated stage across the room, and although The Gold-Bug was a larger establishment than The Peregrine, the dance floor was packed with revelers, their frenzied steps clicking against the stone tile and ricocheting off the walls in a percussive chorus (mostly) in time with the music. Also unlike The Peregrine, Dipper could see no bar, although several patrons carried colorful drinks in their hands, which they tried valiantly not to spill as they danced. 

In the far corner of the room, Dipper located the doorway that must lead to the stairs to the upper level. Leaning against the wall beside it was a man who, in a black three-piece suit better suited for business than pleasure, was probably one of Cipher’s boys. Figuring it was his best shot at finding the man himself, Dipper steeled his resolve and pushed his way through the dancers to the other side of the room. 

The man regarded Dipper with disinterest as he approached. “What’s the password, mac?” he asked.

“I’m, uh, here to see the owner?” Dipper tried. 

The man scoffed. “Tell it to Sweeney. Either gimme the password or screw." 

His nerves already on edge, Dipper was about to give up and go home. He could ring Cipher back later and explain that he’d tried to see him, but his crony wouldn’t let him in the door. In fact, if he talked to Cipher at a time when he wasn’t in such a hurry, Dipper could say what he had meant to say to him in the first place, and break things off with the guy for good. Dipper was liking this plan more and more when a voice said from right beside him, “[Copiale](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Copiale_cipher).” 

Dipper whipped around to see Cipher grinning down at him. In complete contrast to his business attire from the night before, Cipher was all dudded up in yellow coattails with a black top hat, bowtie and cane. His yellow waistcoat was stitched with an unusual brick pattern. Dipper got that same sense of niggling déjà vu that he’d had when he’d first met the guy. But now, like then, what drew most of his attention was Cipher’s eerie, snake-like eye, which currently seemed to be glowing a little in the dim light. 

“Sorry, boss,” the guard said quickly, throwing his hands up in surrender. “I didn’t think the guy was serious.”

“Why don’t you leave the thinking to me from now on, Sunshine?” Cipher replied, none of the acid of his words seeping into his cheerful tone.  

The man bowed his head and stepped aside to let Cipher pass, and Dipper, reluctantly, followed. A flight of stairs on the right-hand side led up to the balcony, but there was another door straight ahead, this one closed. Cipher pulled out a ring of keys from his trouser pocket and began flipping through for the right one. “Sorry I’m late, kid,” he said as he slid the key home in the lock. “I had to find someplace discreet to park the bent car.” 

Behind the door was another flight of stairs, this one leading down. Dipper’s step faltered at the top. “Uh, sure, no problem, that’s fine,” he said, his voice rising in pitch against his will.  

Cipher stopped on the stair below him and stared at him for a moment with that unnerving gaze of his. Then he bent over laughing, hauling in lungfuls of air between fits of giggles. The mob boss was _giggling._ Dipper was at even more of a loss. 

“Aw, you slay me, kid!” Cipher finally said, wiping a tear from his eye with a gloved finger. “That was a joke. You really think I can’t afford my own boiler? I oughta be offended.”

“I– I’m sorry,” Dipper said, utterly lost. He was struggling to reconcile the cold-blooded killer from Pacifica’s horrible story with the man standing in front of him.

Suddenly, Cipher’s cane slammed into the wall in front of Dipper, blocking his way. Cipher scrutinized Dipper more closely, his expression turning serious. “What’s eating you, kid?” His eye narrowed and he leaned in way too close for Dipper’s comfort in order to examine Dipper’s paralyzed expression. After an agonizingly long beat of silence, Cipher grinned like the Cheshire cat, his rather sharp teeth suddenly occupying a good deal of Dipper’s field of vision. “You’re really scared of me, huh?” He swung his cane around and leaned back on his heels, looking tickled, and Dipper let out a soft, relieved exhale. 

Cipher was right, in more ways than one. Not only was Dipper concerned about ending up at the bottom of the the East River with bricks in his pockets, but in the silent dark of the stairwell, he’d also had the sudden urge to close what little distance Cipher had left between them and… No, that was _not_ a train of thought that Dipper was going to board. 

He knew he was different; he’d come to terms with it a long time ago. He’d even fooled around with a few boys in school, but the anxiety that went with it, of having to be so careful around everyone but Mabel (and really, thank God for Mabel), of not being able to so much as hold hands without being absolutely certain that they were alone, had utterly frayed Dipper’s nerves. And that was just with normal fellas, who _didn’t_ run their own criminal empires.  Cipher was so entirely off-limits that Dipper was rather horrified that the thought had even crossed his mind. More than once. Perhaps he ought to re-read what Freud had written about the unconscious. Pacifica might be right; maybe he really did have an unhealthy attraction to danger.

He thought he’d resigned himself years ago to a quiet, hermetic life with his typewriter. He and that beautiful Underwood were quite happy together, and really, what gave Bill Cipher the right to walk into his life and shake everything up, or to be so stupidly attractive for that matter? Of course, Dipper had no one to blame but himself if he was starved for attention, but he would almost swear that Cipher was _encouraging_ it. 

“Listen, Pine Tree,” Cipher continued, seemingly oblivious to Dipper’s inner turmoil, “just because I gotta pack heat in order to do my job properly, doesn’t mean I’m gonna turn around and plug ya first chance I get. Hell, if I wanted to do that, I woulda done it already. Ya follow? Unless you get it in your pretty head to cross me somehow, you’ve got nothin’ to fear from me.”

Dipper nodded, trying to take Cipher’s words to heart. “Alright,” he said. “That sounds fair.” And then he cast about desperately for a different, safer topic as they descended the stairs. “Where are we going?” was the obvious choice. 

“Why, to meet the boys, of course!” Cipher said cheerfully. “I told you I had business to take care of.”

Cipher couldn’t really be serious…could he? “I can, uh, wait upstairs for you. I wouldn’t want to…” _learn anything that might be hazardous to my health_ , Dipper thought. “…intrude,” he said. 

“Horsefeathers! They may not be the most social bunch, but they ain’t gonna bite ya. Besides, I’ve got a proposition to discuss with you.”

At those words, Dipper’s blood ran cold. But before he could respond, Cipher had swung open the door at the bottom of the stairs, and was holding it open for him expectantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> clubhouse - police station  
> drum - speakeasy  
> tell it to Sweeney - tell it to someone who’ll believe you  
> screw - get lost, get out  
> dud up - dress up  
> bent - stolen  
> boiler - car  
> plug - shoot  
> horsefeathers! - nonsense!
> 
> In case you're interested, the Radiator Building (now the Bryant Park Hotel) in NYC was my general inspiration for the architecture of The Gold-Bug, although The Gold-Bug isn't a skyscraper.


	6. Meet the Family

Dipper weighed his options. 

One: Turn around and run back up the stairs, and keep running until he was back at his apartment. He dismissed this idea almost immediately as being both incredibly immature and something that Cipher was certain to take offense to. Besides, if Cipher decided to give chase, the mafioso possessed the obvious advantage of longer legs. 

Two: Make up an excuse. Like…he’d left the stove on. He had to feed the cats that he definitely did own. He was suddenly feeling deathly ill. He was terribly claustrophobic and couldn’t possibly enter a subterranean room like that. He had to catch the next train to…somewhere, anywhere. Dipper reluctantly discarded option two simply because he was terrible at lying, and there was no way he could come up with anything on the spot that Cipher would buy.

Three: Walk through that door. It was only an offer, after all. Dipper could refuse. He _would_ refuse, whatever it was. He had made a promise to Pacifica. It was that promise that gave him the courage to go with option three. There was nothing that Cipher could offer him that he would value more than a promise to his best friend. And Cipher didn’t seem like the type to resort to violence simply for not getting his way. After all, even Pacifica had said that he’d left her family alone after the death of her father. Dipper was reasonably confident that he could say no to Cipher and walk out of that room alive. 

Taking a quiet breath, he moved to join Cipher by the door, and together they crossed into the room beyond. It was a relatively small space, but floor-to-ceiling shelves full of bottles of alcohol every color of the rainbow spanned three of the walls. In the far corner were stacked a number of large, wooden crates, also probably full of booze, next to a row of tall, wooden cabinets. Two small, simple tables sat in the center of the cellar. Around one, three men in dark suits sat playing cards and sharing a bottle of what looked like whiskey. Two of them Dipper recognized as the men who had been sitting with Cipher at The Peregrine. At the other table, another man and, to Dipper’s surprise, a woman, wearing a suit like the rest of them, were engaged in casual conversation. There were three other men in the room, two of them arguing raucously about whether Lon Chaney made a convincing crime boss in that movie a few years back, and one with a clipboard and pencil in hand, seemingly taking inventory of one of the shelves. All of them ceased what they were doing and looked from their boss to Dipper as soon as the two entered. 

“I’d better make a better boss than a guy with no legs,” Cipher said to the fellas who had been arguing about Chaney, as he swanned in and pulled a bottle of liquor from the nearest shelf, and a crystal glass from one of the cabinets, revealing an impressive arsenal of knives, pistols and sub-machine guns also stashed inside. The man with the clipboard made a discreet note about the lost unit. Dipper stayed standing just inside the doorway, unsure of the etiquette in this particular scenario, and wanting to draw as little attention to himself as possible. 

“Of course ya do, boss,” the particularly heavy-set fella in the duo spoke up, albeit a little sheepishly. “We was comparin’ him to the leader of the Clinton Park boys, not you.” 

Cipher’s eyes lit up with a manic sort of gleam as he busted out laughing again. “Oh, that’s funny! ‘Cause we busted his kneecaps in last year, didn’t we? Man, you guys are a hoot.”

“Hey, boss, who’s the kid?” the woman asked in a patient tone that spoke of a long history of dealing with Cipher’s antics.  

Cipher tossed back his drink and deposited the empty glass on the nearest table before returning to Dipper’s side and throwing an arm around his shoulders. Dipper tensed under Cipher’s touch and the renewed gaze of everyone in the room. 

“This, Chopper, is our distinguished guest for the evening, Mister Dipper Pines,” Cipher said. When no one showed any sign of recognition, Cipher rolled his eye and sighed heavily. “Crack a book every once in a while, would ya? It’s embarrassing. Pine Tree here is only one of the most famous authors of your age – and deservedly so. This kid can turn a phrase like a disc jockey turns tunes.” 

Dipper felt himself blush slightly at the praise. For some reason, Cipher’s compliment affected him more than any of the dozens of glowing reviews from world-renowned critics that Mabel had read to him from the papers. Dipper wondered if the mafioso always sweet-talked guys he wanted to deal with, or if he was special. 

“That’s real swell, but why is he here?” Chopper asked, unimpressed. 

“I’m glad you asked,” Cipher said. “Pine Tree’s writing a new book, which a lot of people are going to read, and he’s interested in our humble profession as potential subject matter. The way I figure it, we can help each other out. As long as he changes the details, we can help him with his research, and show him that there’s more to what we do than rum-running and racketeering. If we treat him right, then maybe he writes something nice, gives businessmen like us a better name. He could change a lot of people’s minds, make them more open to doing business with us. Of course, we would compensate you for your hard work,” Cipher said, turning to Dipper. “You could name your price, kid. Whatever you think’s fair.”

“N-no,” Dipper said quickly, taking a step back. “I couldn’t accept any of your money.”

A tense silence fell over the room, and Cipher’s eye narrowed as he regarded Dipper cooly. “You worried you won’t be able to wash the blood out?”

On the verge of panic, Dipper took a deep breath to calm himself. “No, I’m sorry, that was poorly worded. What I meant was, I don’t work for commission. Whatever I write, it’ll come from my heart.”

The corner of Cipher’s mouth quirked up in a half-smile. “Fair enough.” Then he leaned in closer, so only Dipper could hear what he said next. “Had any interesting dreams lately?”  

Dipper stared at him, dumbstruck. He had told no one about the strange dream that had inspired this new novel, so there was no way Cipher could know a thing like that. In fact, Dipper had thought Cipher was just being cocky by proposing a deal for a book that he wasn’t sure Dipper was even going to write, but now Dipper was starting to suspect that Cipher knew he had already started writing it. He could have had Dipper tailed, but that still wouldn’t explain how he knew about the dream. Like a good psychology student, Dipper considered the possibility of hypnotic suggestion, but as far as he knew, it was only possible to implant a suggestion while the patient was in a dreamlike state, that would later manifest itself in the patient’s waking life, not the other way around. No one could control dreams. At least, no one human. 

“I’ll tell ya what,” Cipher continued at a normal volume. “How’s about we finish introductions, I take care of a few things down here, during which time you can take as many notes as your heart desires, and everyone here will be nothing short of courteous and answer any of your questions to the best of their abilities, or they’ll have me to answer to.” Cipher emphasized his wish with a pointed glare around the room. “Then you come upstairs with me and we have ourselves a little chat over drinks – on the house, of course. After that, if you want nothin’ more to do with us, then you walk away, and we won’t bother you again. If you do decide that you want to continue this relationship, however, then we’ll make arrangements for you to come visit us more often. Maybe you can even come along on a few field trips, so long as you behave. How’s that sound?” 

Dipper took a moment to think. If all Cipher wanted from him was this book, then he wasn’t asking for Dipper to do anything that he wasn’t going to do already. Even if Cipher did somehow already know what Dipper was going to write about, Dipper would hate to abandon the book now, after he was already so invested, and Cipher was offering him access to more information on the subject than he could dream of getting otherwise. As long as he retained control of what he wrote, and didn’t take any money for it, then he would owe Cipher nothing. That would make Cipher’s proposition not so much a deal as…an experiment. And Dipper would be lying through his teeth if he said that he wasn’t the least bit curious about Cipher and his gang.

“I can’t guarantee it’ll be a favorable depiction,” Dipper said finally.

Cipher smiled. “I respect your artistic integrity. That just means we’ll have to work harder to make a favorable impression.”

“Okay,” Dipper said carefully. “We’ll see where this goes.”

“Capital,” Bill said. “I look forward to working with ya.”

No one bothered to stand and introduce themselves, or to greet Dipper with anything more than a slight nod or a wary glance. Instead, Cipher pointed out the different people in the room and explained what their jobs were. The two men who Dipper recognized from earlier were the apparently absent-minded Spoons, and Snake Eyes, the latter so-called for his rotten luck at rats and mice. When Dipper asked how Spoons got his nickname, Cipher delightedly retold the story of how the guy had taken a rival gang member’s eyes out with a pair of spoons from the cafeteria while the two were under glass. The level of detail that Cipher included had Dipper fighting his gag reflex. At any rate, the two of them were the gang’s main muscle, for obvious reasons. They were a couple of baby grands. The other man playing cards with them was Matches, the clean-up guy. His specialties were planting and destroying evidence, and offering “incentives,” which Dipper guessed meant bribes. 

Quill, the guy with the clipboard, was Cipher’s bookkeeper. He was built much like the pencil in his hand, and Dipper guessed he didn’t do much of the gang’s dirty work. Still, there was a calculating gleam in his eyes that said he was not to be taken lightly. The doorman upstairs was actually called Sunshine, “for his sunny disposition,” Cipher explained with a smirk. Apparently, the guy was an excellent scratcher, and while the Cipher family had no need to forge money, Cipher brought Sunshine along when he went to collect on a deal, because the man could always tell if the buyer was trying to rip them off. The two fellas who had been arguing about Lon Chaney, and were now arguing about the best recipe for explosives, were Mouse and Ticker. Mouse, the large one, was Cipher’s chief intelligence guy. He always had his ear to the ground for the latest talk on the street, and had contacts both in other gangs, and in the fuzz. Ticker was in charge of firepower. “He stocks the cabinets,” Cipher explained with a noncommittal wave toward the weapons cabinets along the far wall, whose grisly contents Dipper had caught a glimpse of earlier. An expensive-looking gold watch chain hung across Ticker’s flank glinted under the bare bulbs as he returned Dipper’s gaze with a passive interest. 

The remaining two, who had resumed their discussion at the second table, were Flivver and Chopper. Flivver, as Dipper might have guessed, was the driver. Cipher didn’t specifically say getaway driver, but Dipper could guess that, too. Chopper was the best shot of the bunch, and back when she was working for a rival gang, she managed to lodge a bullet between Cipher’s ribs. “So naturally, I recruited her,” Cipher said, as if that logic made perfect sense. 

Dipper stared at him, disbelieving. “Aren’t you concerned about her loyalties?” he asked, voice hushed. 

Cipher just looked amused. “I’ll let you in on a little trade secret of mine,” he said. “You don’t have to concern yourself with a person’s loyalty if you own their soul.” 

“Are…are you talking about blackmail?”  

Cipher frowned. “Geez, first I’ve got a stolen car, and now I’m blackmailing people? Listen, Pine Tree. All of my deals are done fair and square. All of our business partners, and everyone in this room, have something they want that I can provide. I give them what they want, and I take my payment. That’s just business.”

“So, wh—"

“Apology accepted, kid!” Cipher said cheerfully, ruffling Dipper’s already hopeless hair and seeming to take some kind of sick pleasure in making it even worse. “Now, I gotta go over some figures with Quill, but we’ll make it snappy. In the meantime, make yourself at home!” 

Dipper didn’t realize that he had actually come to find Cipher’s presence by his side reassuring until the mafioso was gone, crossing the room in a few infuriatingly long strides and making grabby motions at Quill’s clipboard until the man handed it over with a put-upon sigh, and they began to look at it together. Dipper felt a little like a minnow suddenly dropped into a shark tank.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (There's a clue about the ending of this fic in my new cipher wheel.)  
>  **Update!** And Tumblr user imara92 drew a gorgeous rendition of my cipher wheel, which you should definitely check out here: http://imara92.tumblr.com/post/154952499537/family-cipher-wheel
> 
> chopper - sub-machine gun  
> rats and mice - dice, craps  
> under glass - in jail  
> baby grand - heavily built man  
> scratcher - forger  
> flivver - Ford Model T


	7. Friends and Public Enemies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I made a crack playlist for this fic in addition to the playlist that inspired it. You can listen to it here: http://8tracks.com/tempest27/dip-the-bill
> 
> Also, I ran across this cool 20s mafia GF AU by Tybay that's quite a bit darker than mine, but with a lot of really awesome artwork. Any of you who are as starved of GF mafia AU as I am and are desperately seeking more should check it out. This little AU's gotta stick together. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GH4BNijlWlY

“Hey! Mister Milquetoast.”

Dipper jumped when Chopper’s voice cut through the din of the other conversations in the room. When he met her eyes, he flinched. Perhaps more so than anyone else in that room, she had the _look_ of a killer, and it made Dipper incredibly nervous. 

She beckoned him over. “C’mere.”

Much like her boss, she left very little room for argument. Having spent a dozen summers in the backwoods of Gravity Falls, Dipper had had it drilled into his head as a kid that if he should encounter a predator in the woods, the most important thing was not to act like prey. So, after only a moment’s hesitation, he crossed the small room to the table where she was sitting. When she motioned for him to take one of the remaining chairs, he did so, keeping his expression as neutral as he could.

She leaned carelessly across the corner of the table to get a better look at his face, her short, razor-straight black hair brushing her cheeks and curling at the corners of her painted lips as she did so. “What’s your angle here?” Her tone held only mild curiosity, but Dipper was still thrown off-balance by the question.

“My…angle?” He picked nervously at his shirt cuff, but quickly stopped himself. Chopper noticed. 

“The boss is no sap, but he doesn’t exactly bother with a sense of self-preservation, ‘neither. I’m the one who looks out for this family, and I don’t know if I believe your story. So, why’re you really here?”

“What Cipher said was true,” Dipper said quickly. “I’m just a writer. And your boss is the one who invited _me_ here. I didn’t seek out any of this. I haven’t even been in this town a week, and the first time I heard the name Bill Cipher was yesterday.”

“I find that hard to believe, seeing as it’s plastered all over the national papers every other week.”

Not thinking, Dipper quipped back, “Yeah, well so’s mine, and you’d never heard of me.”

Chopper’s eyes narrowed, and her lips parted slightly, almost baring her teeth. Dipper backpedaled. “All I meant was, we don’t get much in the way of news back in my hometown.”

Chopper continued to regard him in silence for an agonizingly long minute while Flivver, sitting opposite, just sipped his drink. He seemed vaguely amused by the whole exchange. “And if I told you I had a six-shooter pointed right between your legs under this table, you’d swear to all that?” Chopper finally asked. 

Dipper’s eyes widened. For the first time, he noticed that only one of Chopper’s arms rested on the table. He gulped, fighting the urge to cross his legs. “I– I swear.”

There was another painful interval of silence before Chopper smiled. “I believe you.” She held up her other hand, and revealed it to be empty. 

Dipper let out the breath he’d been holding in a rush, and then heaved in a few more. Flivver chuckled and slid his drink over to Dipper. “I think you need that more than I do, mac.”

Dipper grabbed the glass and tipped the drink back like he’d been taking hard alcohol for years. 

“There’s your first lesson: don’t trust a word of what any of us say,” Chopper said. “You oughta write that down.”

“I think I will,” Dipper replied, taking out his notebook and flipping it open to a blank page. He uncapped his pen and wrote, “TRUST NO ONE,” and then underlined it for good measure. 

“Ya did good, kid,” Flivver said, clapping a hand on Dipper’s back. “Snake Eyes just about pissed himself when Chopper pulled that trick on him.”

Dipper laughed weakly. Gradually, more and more members of the family congregated around Dipper’s table, curious about the Daniel who had suddenly been cast into their lions’ den. “You left out the best part of the story,” Spoons interjected excitedly when Chopper informed Snake Eyes that Flivver had been trash talking him to the new kid. “She only had to pull that pistol trick ‘cause Snake Eyes wouldn’t take the icy mitt. She had to scare him off of her.”

“Bushwa, I ain’t scared of Chopper,” Snake Eyes defended, though he shrank back from her responding glare. 

“Anyway, this kid’s either got the heart of a lion or he’s as screwy as the boss himself,” Spoons continued, lifting his chin toward Dipper. “I thought for sure Snake Eyes and I was gonna end up hauling his lanky stiff into the nearest dumpster when the boss caught him gawking at us last night. But the next thing we know, the two of ‘em are chinning like old pals. It was downright unsettlin’.”

Dipper too found it unsettling how friendly he and the crime boss seemed to have become in less than twenty-four hours, but he wasn’t going to comment on something even he didn’t understand. Instead he asked, “What were you guys even doing in someplace so public if you didn’t want to be seen?”

“Now I never said _that_ ,” Spoons said with a sly grin. “Anybody who’s anybody in this town has gotta be seen, or he might as well not exist. That’s no less true for fellas in our line of work.”

“But when someone really notices you, he’s a liability?” Dipper asked. Inexplicably – no doubt foolishly – he was beginning to feel more at ease among this dangerous crowd after surviving Chopper’s interrogation. It was almost like he’d passed a kind of initiation – and wasn’t that a disturbing thought. He immediately chose to pretend it had never occurred to him. 

“Exactly!” Spoons said. 

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Dipper grumbled. 

“Hey, Chopper, you ever _actually_ shot anyone, or d’you just pretend you’re gonna do it?” Snake Eyes jabbed, taking another swig from the bottle in his hand. He was already half seas over and slurring his words.

Everyone around the table exchanged incredulous looks. “Uh, she shot the boss, ya dumbass,” Matches said. 

“Yeah, right where his black heart oughta be!” Chopper said, raising her voice. 

“Love ya too, doll,” Cipher called back from across the room, throwing a wave over his shoulder but never looking up from the clipboard he and Quill were sharing. 

“Wait, you didn’t actually shoot him in the heart…?” Dipper asked. 

Chopper looked unimpressed. “I don’t miss, kid.”

“But– How did he even survive that?” 

There were a few snickers around the table. Chopper looked Dipper over slowly, carefully. “Just how much d’you know about the boss?” she asked. 

“Not much…”

“Well, I’ll give ya another piece of advice, then,” she said. “Things tend to go one of two ways with him. Most men he eats alive. But to a few of us, he’s a goddamn savior. I’m just curious where you’ll fit in.”

What was that supposed to mean? Was everyone in the Cipher family as cryptic as Bill himself? If so, Dipper could get sick of it very quickly. He was still here because Cipher had promised him information – lord knows he wasn’t sitting around punching the bag with a bunch of gangsters for his health. He was about to try forcing Chopper’s hand with a direct question when he heard the distinctive click of Cipher’s gold-tipped Oxfords approaching behind him. 

Cipher leaned his hip against the table to give Dipper a once-over. “The boys treatin’ ya alright?” he asked, looking around the table for any signs of insubordination. 

“They’ve been grand,” Dipper replied with a note of caution. He wasn’t about to get between a gang of notorious criminals and the leader of said gang of criminals. Besides, if he excluded Chopper threatening to shoot him, they really had been quite accommodating. “Very informative,” he added for good measure. 

Everyone around the table smiled innocently back at Cipher, who rolled his eye. “At any rate, I’ve come to deliver you from this den of iniquity.”

“To go imbibe alcohol in the bigger den of iniquity upstairs?” Dipper responded with a smile, rather surprised at his own cheek. Oh god, he wasn’t flirting, was he? The thought sobered him immediately, and he vowed to keep a more vigilant watch over the things that came out of his mouth that night. The alcohol wasn’t going to help. 

Cipher laughed. “Excuse me? The Gold-Bug is a _palace_ of iniquity! Did you see the chandelier? That thing cost me an arm and a leg.”

“Please tell me you’re not using that expression literally,” Dipper said, getting up to follow Cipher to the door.

Cipher only laughed more. “Yeesh, kid, you’ve got a gruesome imagination. It’s rather charming.”

Dipper grimaced, and re-calibrated his verbal filter to include talk of gore and violence, which Cipher apparently found “charming.” Yet another in a long list of reasons why Dipper should have precisely zero interest in him that wasn’t strictly professional. 

Once they had stepped out onto the upper landing and Cipher had locked the door behind them, he turned to speak to Sunshine. “This kid’s on the VIP list,” he said, jerking a thumb back at Dipper. “No password required, capisce?”

“Yeah, boss,” Sunshine said, although he seemed less than pleased about it as he looked Dipper slowly up and down.

All three men turned their heads toward the sound of a light, feminine gasp. With mild horror, Dipper took in the sight of Laila standing there, on the arm of some handsome fella, staring back at him and Cipher like she’d just walked into the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. In a moment, she blinked out of her shock, and forced a small smile. “D-Dipper, its good to see you again,” she said. Then, addressing Cipher, who stood watching the exchange with what appeared to be great amusement, “And you, sir.”

Cipher tipped his hat to her politely, but seemed otherwise content just to watch Dipper grow increasingly pink about the ears. “Hello, Laila,” Dipper said, forcing a smile of his own. “What, uh, what brings you here?”

“Oh. You know, this joint’s one of the best in town.” She shot another quick, nervous smile Cipher’s way, which he returned with a broad grin and a wink – well, what was probably a wink. “I just came here with, uh…uhm…” She looked up helplessly at the man she was with.

He frowned. “Kenneth,” he said. 

“Right, Kenneth,” she continued, “to let loose a little, you know... What about you?”

Dipper was at a loss for what to say, but it was the opposite of relief that he felt when Cipher chimed in for him. “I invited him. I offered to show him around the place, to help him out with the research for his next novel.”

At that Laila looked genuinely interested, so Dipper cut in before she could ask any more questions. “Hey, Pacifica isn’t here with you, is she?”

“No, Paz won’t come here. She never says why,” Laila said. Then, looking back at Cipher and Sunshine again, she added quickly, “Oh, but I’m sure it’s nothing to do with you gentlemen.”

“Are you?” Cipher asked, quite conversationally.

Dipper couldn’t believe this was happening. He wanted to sink into the floor. “There’s no chance you’d, perhaps, not mention this to Pacifica, is there?” He was practically pleading with Laila at this point. 

Laila only shook her head slowly, though not without sympathy. It was sympathy for the damned, for all the good it would do him. Pacifica was going to tear him to pieces when she heard about this. “But anyway, Kenneth and I were just leaving, so we won’t keep you,” she said, giving a strong yank on Kenneth’s arm. “I’ll see you around, Dipper.” 

“Or maybe you won’t, if Pacifica gets to me first,” Dipper grumbled under his breath as Laila dragged her befuddled date toward the door.

“What was all that about? We just got here,” he heard Kenneth ask as the two left, but Laila just shushed him harshly, and then they were swallowed by the crowd. 

Dipper buried his face in his hands. “Oh, I’m in so much trouble,” he groaned. “And it’s all your fault.”

“The Northwest girl’s still got a grudge against me, huh?” Cipher asked. “Y’know, if you’re that worried about it, I could always pay her a visit and warn her off of giving you a hard time about seeing me.”

“No, absolutely not! You’re not to go near her, you understand?” Dipper said frantically. 

Sunshine coughed, and Cipher raised his eyebrows. “Did you just try to tell me what to do?”

Dipper swallowed thickly and took an involuntary step backwards. “Uh…”

Suddenly, Cipher was grinning from ear to ear. “I knew there was a reason I liked you, kid! But don’t ever do that again.”

“Okay,” Dipper agreed quickly.

“Come on,” Cipher said, putting an arm around his shoulders again and ushering him toward the stairs to the second level. “If you don’t want my help, then you’re gonna need a good quilt tonight to face that northwesterly wind tomorrow.”

“How poetic,” Dipper grumbled. “She’s perfectly justified in her feelings toward you, you know, after…what you did. And she’ll be perfectly justified in whatever she decides to do to me, too.”

“And yet, here you are,” Cipher said, and his expression was insufferably smug. “Why is that?”

_Yes, Dipper, why is that?_ he thought to himself. _Could it be that you really are just as psychotic as the man standing next to you?_ “Well I wasn’t about to stand you up, of all people,” he said. 

Cipher scoffed. “You’re free to leave at any time, kid. It’s not like you’ve signed a contract with the Devil.”

“No, it’s worse,” Dipper said grimly. “I’ve signed a contract with my agent.”

“Well, it certainly sounds like _you_ of all people should understand that sometimes ya gotta do dirty things for the job.”

Dipper felt his face heat up slightly in the dim stairwell. He knew, rationally, that Cipher was talking about violence, but the rational part of his brain didn’t seem to have much to do with anything regarding Bill Cipher. “I don’t hurt people,” he said.

“Well I do, and you’re not exactly rushing to turn me over to the fuzz.” 

Dipper still couldn’t quite believe how candid Cipher was about what he did for a living. “Gee, I wonder if that has anything to do with the fact that I know what happened to the last guy who tried that.”

“See, I don’t think it does,” Cipher mused. 

Dipper didn’t really know what to say to that, so he said nothing. Besides, they were walking along the balcony now, which was bustling with people, and it didn’t help that all of their conversations hushed as he and Cipher walked by. Anything they said now would be overheard by at least a dozen of The Gold-Bug’s patrons.

Cipher led the way around to the bar, which was set back against the wall over the entrance, where it couldn’t be seen from below. It spanned nearly the entire wall, and two bartenders scurried back and forth behind it, pulling down colorful bottles from the wall and mixing their contents in delicate crystal glasses. When Cipher lightly tapped the end of the bar with the head of his cane, the nearer of the two handed off the drink he’d been working on to the other, and swept over to take their orders. The man was sharply dressed in black trousers, shirt and waistcoat, with a black necktie and gold cufflinks. His black hair was slicked back stylishly. 

“Evenin’, Jack,” Cipher greeted him amicably. “We havin’ a good night?”

“Like always, sir,” the bartender – Jack – replied. “What can I get for you?” 

“Hmm…” Cipher tapped his fingers on the bar, considering. Then he leered at his bartender and purred, “You can get me between the sheets.” 

Jack returned Cipher's heated look as he said, "One Between the Sheets it is." Then he turned his attention to Dipper. “And for you, sir?”

Dipper was certain his face was bright red now. He had been planning on ordering whatever Cipher ordered, since he was pretty sure the Bee’s Knees was a training wheels cocktail, but he wasn’t about to order _that_. Who even came up with that name anyway? “Uh, do you have any specialties?” he tried. 

Jack and Cipher exchanged a look. “A Golden God it is,” Jack said, and turned his back on them to pull down the appropriate liquors and fix their drinks. In no time at all, he had produced first an amber-yellow cocktail that looked very similar to the one Cipher had ordered at The Peregrine, but with a curl of orange peel on the rim of the glass instead of sugar, and then a rich, golden colored cocktail in a deeper glass, with what looked like a small, rum-soaked golden apple at the bottom. “Enjoy.”

“Jack, you’re an artist,” Cipher said, taking the first cocktail. Dipper picked up the second, and followed the mafioso back along the balcony the way they had come. 

He looked down curiously into his drink as they walked. It smelled deliciously sweet. “Have you ever paid for a drink in your life?” he asked. 

Cipher only laughed. When they reached the last table in the row, which was occupied by a young couple, Cipher tapped the man on the shoulder. Both of them looked up at him with wide eyes. “Skedaddle, sweethearts,” Cipher said. Grabbing their drinks, they swiftly did just that.

Cipher hooked his cane on the edge of the balustrade and sat down in the newly vacant chair in front of him, while Dipper took the one across, glancing guiltily over his shoulder at the fleeing couple. Cipher took one long, slow sip of his drink, and then set it down and sat back, spreading his arms. “Alright, Pine Tree,” he said. “Shoot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> milquetoast - a timid person  
> sap - fool, idiot  
> icy mitt - rejection  
> chinning - talking  
> bushwa - euphemism for ‘bullshit’  
> half seas over - drunk  
> quilt - a drink that warms one up


	8. Drinks and Deals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Freeeeeeedooooooom! OK, now that that's out of the way, a couple of updates. Now that I've finished finals (finally), updates should be a little more frequent. They would be quite a bit more frequent, but for the fact that I'll be starting another fic (00Q if any of you are interested) soon and working on it in tandem with this one. I'll also be starting an internship which might be fairly intensive at the end of June. I still hope to finish this fic by the end of the summer, however, and I'll especially try to get the next chapter out soon, since this one's a bit of a cliffhanger ;)
> 
> Thank you all again for your encouraging comments. I just wanted to let you know that even if I don't respond to all of them, I deeply appreciate every single one.
> 
>  **Update!** Tumblr user chessmily made an absolutely wonderful work of art for this chapter! Check it out here: http://chessmily.tumblr.com/post/154637038746/billdip-1920s-mafia-au-based-on-my-favourite
> 
> And mod Tyrone from the BillDip Tumblr trymyangle made an epic piece of art inspired by this chapter as well: http://trymyangle.tumblr.com/post/148660415433/someone-please-please-please-take-my-computer-away

“Any question I like?” Dipper asked skeptically. 

“Any question you like,” Cipher agreed. 

Before Dipper could really stop himself, the first words out of his mouth were, “How many people have you killed?” Christ, he hadn’t even started on his drink yet and he was already making stupid decisions. He half expected Cipher to come back with something along the lines of “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” But after his minor panic attack, he was rather disappointed with Cipher’s response. 

“Mm, next question,” Cipher said with a dismissive wave of his hand. 

Dipper frowned. “You said any question I liked.”

“That I did,” Cipher said, taking another sip of his drink, “but I never said I’d _answer_ any question.”  

Leave it to the mafioso to get out of something on a technicality. Well, two could play at that game. “Alright,” Dipper said, “why won’t you answer my first question?”

Cipher’s golden eye seemed to gleam when he smiled, slowly, over the rim of his glass. He set his drink down. “I’ll put it this way. I get a lot of free press. My mug’s all over the papers practically every week next to some flashy headline like ‘Cipher Family Slays Again!’ Now, a not insignificant number of those things that we get written up for, we didn’t even do. But if we let people think we did, then the family gains a useful reputation. We start to seem positively ubiquitous: ‘Don’t cross Cipher. He’ll know.’ Now, if I were to give you a definite number, it would ruin the mystique. Ya follow?”

“That…actually makes a lot of sense,” Dipper said, rather fascinated by the logic, despite the fact that they were talking about murder. “Except you want good publicity from me, don’t you? Wouldn’t that work against your ‘useful reputation’ in the papers?” 

“Listen, Pine Tree, I’m no angel.” Cipher snickered, apparently finding something about that statement amusing. “Just the opposite, really! And I don’t expect you to paint me as one. What I’m trying to do here is strike a balance. If a guy gets too much of a bad rap in this line of work, business partners tend to get flighty. Intimidation is a fine tactic, but people are easier to deal with when they _want_ to deal. So what I want from you, Pine Tree, is _fair_ publicity. I operate on one principle: everyone gets what they bargained for. If someone breaks their bargain, I might break…other things. But I’m not an unreasonable man.”

“So then, why do you do all of this? This profession, I mean,” Dipper asked. 

“Good ol’ Lucifer may be the prince of this world, kid,” Cipher said, “but even the Devil’s gotta delegate.” Cipher’s hand disappeared inside his jacket, and Dipper tensed. But the mafioso pulled out two cigars and offered one to Dipper. 

“Oh, no thank you,” Dipper said politely. “I think taking up drinking _and_ smoking in two days would be a little excessive.”

“Personally, I’m a fan of excess,” Cipher said, but he nonetheless returned one of the cigars to his inside pocket. He placed the other between his teeth and lit it behind his hand, although Dipper never saw the lighter. The tip glowed a witchy blue. 

“I hadn’t noticed,” Dipper said without thinking. It was unusual for him to do anything without thinking, except, apparently, around Bill Cipher, when it seemed to happen a lot.  

Luckily, Cipher wasn’t offended by Dipper’s sarcasm. On the contrary, he smiled and blew a perfect smoke triangle across the table. Dipper was too astonished to be annoyed as he waved the smoke out of his face. “How did you do that?” he asked.

Cipher gave what was clearly supposed to be a wink. “Magic.” 

Dipper had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. It was almost like the man was allergic to straight answers. He was probably just very talented...with his tongue. That thought had Dipper reaching for his drink, and he took a large swallow before he remembered that he had to pace himself. It tasted like apples and rich honey and spice, and while it had more of a burn to it than last night’s cocktails, the sensation wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “Wow, that’s delicious,” he said.

Cipher chuckled. “It’s stronger than it seems.”

Dipper took another slow sip, defiant of Cipher’s patronizing tone. It wasn’t the smartest thing to do, seeing as the half glass of whiskey he had knocked back downstairs was already starting to make his head feel a little fuzzy. “Yeah? What’s in it?”

“Absinthe.”

Dipper nearly spat out the next sip. “That’s— That’s _really_ illegal.” He set the glass down and pushed it a little ways away, eyeing it warily. 

Cipher grinned. “That just makes it more _fun._ ”

Dipper let out a slow, quiet sigh. “You know, I’m usually pretty good at reading people, understanding their character. But I really don’t understand you.”

“Now, I don’t think that’s quite true,” Cipher said, cigar smoke curling from his lips. “Take your protagonist in _The Dark Woods_ , what’s his name, Henry? Henry makes it out like the story is all about the people around him, but it isn’t. It’s really about Henry and his desire, however much he represses it, to let himself be like them.” He leaned one elbow on the table, rested his chin in his hand and locked eyes with Dipper. He had a serpent’s stare, and Dipper was unable to look away. “And I think, really, it’s all about you,” he continued. “You want to know what it’s like to break the rules.”

“I…” Dipper’s voice failed him. Was Cipher right? Had that been the real meaning behind his book? He hadn’t consciously written it that way, but he was beginning to think that his unconscious mind was a lot more powerful than he had ever given it credit for. And he had thought _he’d_ been good at reading people, but if Cipher was right, and had picked up on all that before he’d even met Dipper, then Dipper had to be much more careful around him.   

“But that’s neither here nor there,” Cipher said, leaning back and taking another sip of his drink, mercifully releasing Dipper from his strange spell. “What I wanna know is what this new book’s about. A gangster with a heart of gold?”

Dipper pursed his lips. If he was being honest, he didn’t really know where he was going with this new story. He was sort of letting it take him along for the ride, at least in the first draft. That was a first for him, as he usually planned out every story – and many other things in his life – meticulously. But he felt as though he couldn’t write this one any other way. “I suppose that depends,” he said finally.

“On what?”

“On whether you have a heart.”

“Oh,” Cipher said, a smile creeping across his face, “so it _is_ about me.”

“I–I never said that!” Dipper spluttered. “Anyway, aren’t I supposed to be the one asking the questions here?”

Cipher gestured with a flourish of his hand for Dipper to continue. Dipper cast about for a safe question, one that wouldn’t offend the mafioso, or require him to go into too much detail about his work. And most importantly, a question that wouldn’t send them off down another one of these uncomfortably personal tangents. “Why ‘The Gold-Bug’?” he asked. “It’s a Poe story, isn’t it? Some mysterious golden beetle bites a man and he goes insane?”

Luckily, Cipher seemed keen to explain. “The story’s an allegory for human lust for wealth and power, and how pursuing those things’ll drive most people insane.” 

“And…you think that applies to you?” Dipper filled in cautiously.  

Cipher let out a barking laugh, nearly spilling his drink in his lap. “Oh, you’re funny, kid. No.” He tipped back the last of his cocktail. “One, I never had any sanity to begin with. And two, I’m not most people. I chose the name because I like to watch what it does to people when I make their dreams come true. You could say I have a talent for it.”

“For…what?” Dipper was regretting his choice already; this was definitely not a safe topic. 

Cipher’s gaze turned heated as he sized Dipper up across the table. “Knowing what people want.”

Dipper swallowed nervously. Cipher's meaning was unmistakable, and Dipper still didn't understand it, but he wanted Bill Cipher bad. And Cipher knew it. 

_You’re going to get yourself killed, idiot_ , his self-preservation instincts informed him, apparently having returned from their extended vacation. And also taking on the voice of Ernest Hemingway for absolutely no damn reason. Dipper blamed the absinthe. 

_Well, you haven’t exactly been a great help on that front,_ Dipper thought back, fully aware that he was arguing with his own mind, and simply not caring. _Where were you when I got myself into this whole mess?_  

_Stunned and watching in abject horror_ , brain Hemingway replied.

_Excuses_ , Dipper dismissed. _Anyway, aren’t I allowed to have a little fun every once in a while?_

_I am deeply concerned by your definition of ‘fun’._

_Oh, dry up, Hemingway. You’re one to talk_ , Dipper thought as he took another sip of his drink to kill the annoying voice. He was sick of living cautiously and always over-planning. If Cipher wanted to make the first move, then he was going to reciprocate, consequences be damned. 

Cipher opened his mouth to speak, but another voice suddenly cut in. “Sorry to interrupt, boss—“

“What?” Cipher snapped, glaring up at Chopper, who in turn looked skeptically between him and Dipper. 

“The Martinez brothers are here with this month's delivery,” she said. 

“And? What do you need me for? Did all of you suddenly become incompetent?”

“They wanna renegotiate terms,” Chopper said, unfazed by Cipher’s ire.  

“Why? We’re already forking over heavy sugar for their merchandise.”

“They say circumstances have changed.” 

Cipher actually growled. “Well that’s fucking enlightening. Sounds to me like they’re chewing gum. Fine. Get Quill and Snake Eyes and meet me downstairs.”

Chopper nodded curtly and made her exit. Cipher let out an irritated sigh as he stood and stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray on the table. “Wanna get a slant at the criminal underworld, kid?” he asked Dipper, who was still sitting rather dumbstruck by the latest turn of events.

“I-is that safe?” Dipper asked.

“This is a routine deal with trusted suppliers,” Cipher said. “The Martinez brothers bring us up the best tequila from Mexico. They’re just smugglers, not gangsters. And we’re on home turf. So I’d say it’s about the safest you can get. It might even get boring if they get into black market economics with Quill. So, are ya comin’?” 

Dipper just stared at Cipher, disbelieving. Hemingway was swearing up a storm in his head. 

“Tick tock, kid,” Cipher said, holding out his hand. 

“…Okay,” Dipper said, little more than a whisper, and took Cipher’s hand. 

Back down in the store room, Snake Eyes, Chopper and Quill were waiting for them. Snake Eyes and Chopper were each carrying a Tommy gun over one shoulder, while Quill carried a large, black leather briefcase at his side. Cipher crossed to the weapons cabinet and pulled out a pistol, which, much to Dipper’s surprise, he held out for Dipper to take. “You ever fired a gun before, Pine Tree?”

“Of course I haven’t fired a gun before!” Dipper said, taking the pistol by the grip and holding it at arm’s length and pointed at the floor. His skin tingled where it made contact with the cool metal, and he felt immediately as though he held death in his hand. 

“And if all goes well tonight, you can say that again tomorrow. But just in case, it’s real easy.” Cipher pulled his own pistol – gold, of course – from its holster under his jacket in order to demonstrate. “Just pull back the hammer, aim, and squeeze the trigger. Bang.” He lowered his gun. “Got it?” Dipper heaved in a fresh lungful of air, unable to do more than nod. “Good. It's loaded, so don't muck around with it. And keep your mouth shut. I’ll do the talking.” With that, Cipher turned to the next cupboard over and slid his fingers down the side, pulling a hidden latch. There was a click, and the whole cupboard swung outward on hidden hinges, revealing a short, brick tunnel, at the end of which was a heavy, steel door.  

Cipher led the way down the tunnel, Dipper sticking close to his side, Quill at the other, with Chopper and Snake Eyes flanking. When Cipher unlatched and hauled open the large door, they stepped out into the side alley of The Gold-Bug, a dim and dingy passage with a utility entrance to the speakeasy at the end of it, two automobiles parked in front of that, and a large delivery truck with two Mexican men standing beside it parked halfway down. The older one had a pristinely waxed and curled mustache while the younger one was clean-shaven, and they wore matching brown suits. Upon seeing Cipher, they both straightened and walked a few paces forward, where they waited for Cipher and his men to meet them. 

They eyed Dipper warily as he followed a pace behind Cipher. The one with the mustache spoke first: _“Buenas noches, señor Cipher.”_

_“Buenas noches, señores,”_ Cipher responded.

_“¿Quién es el chico nuevo?”_ the man asked.

_“No es cosa suya,”_ Cipher replied, as easily as if he were speaking English. Dipper only knew a little Spanish from living in California, and quickly realized he would get very little out of this particular outing. _“¿Por qué quieren renegociar nuestro acuerdo?”_ Cipher continued. _“No he oído de nada nuevo en la frontera.”_

_“Esto no es de la frontera,”_ the man replied. _“Hubo una sequía en Los Altos. Los cultivos se murieron. Entonces, el producto es escaso este año. Esto significa precios más altos.”_

Cipher crossed his arms, staring the two men down. They shifted nervously from foot to foot under his gaze. _“Tampoco he oído nada de una sequía,”_ he said.

The younger brother finally spoke up, although his voice cracked on the first syllable. _“En cualquier caso, necesitamos veinte porciento más.”_

_“¿Ustedes han traído el envío total?”_ Cipher asked.

He nodded vigorously. _“Sí, todo está en el camión.”_

Cipher turned back to the others. “Snake Eyes, check the truck, make sure it’s all there,” he ordered. Snake Eyes complied, jogging down the alleyway and pulling back the tarp at the back of the smugglers’ truck with the barrel of his gun. “Quill, count out two grand.” Quill unlockedthe leather briefcase which was, unsurprisingly, filled with high denomination bills. Chopper kept a vigilant watch over the proceedings. 

Meanwhile, the two smugglers looked anxiously around the alley, and continued to fidget. Cipher eyed them suspiciously. _“¿Por qué están tan nerviosos?”_ he asked. _“Recibirán su dinero, si el producto está en orden.”_

_“Ah, la policía está cerca. Queremos terminar esto asunto lo antes posible,”_ the older one replied.

_“No se preocupen por la policía_ ,” Cipher said. _“Pero si quieren acelerar el proceso, ayuden a mi hombre a descargar las bienes.”_  

_“Por supuesto,”_ the man said. 

“Everything looks good, boss!” Snake Eyes called from the back of the truck. 

“Alright, start unloading the goods,” Cipher called back. He held out his hand to Quill, who deposited a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills into it. Cipher then handed the cash over to the man with the mustache, who flipped through it quickly and then shoved it into his pocket.  

 _“Gracias, señor,”_ he said, and then he pulled his younger brother around to the back of the truck to help Snake Eyes unload the crates of tequila.  

Once the two were out of earshot, Dipper whispered, “What’s going on? I could barely understand a word of that.” 

“They say there was a drought in Los Altos that destroyed the agave crops this year, and they had to hike up the prices,” Cipher replied, without taking his eyes off of the two smugglers as they hauled crates out of the back of the truck. “If I find out they were lying, next time I’ll take what I’m owed out of their hides.” 

“F-fair enough,” Dipper muttered, and shut his mouth again. 

When all of the crates were lined up against the wall, the two brothers returned to where Cipher was waiting. _“Fue un placer, como siempre, señor,”_ the older one said, and offered his hand. 

Cipher shook it. _“Espero que la lluvia vuelva pronto a Los Altos. Por tu bien.”_

The man’s face turned pale. _“Yo tambien, señor.”_  

The smugglers stepped back, and it was then that the older one glanced up at the rooftops across from the speakeasy, where a dark shape moved. Dipper caught a glimpse of a metallic flash, before—

“Get down!” Cipher yelled, and shoved Dipper to the ground. A split second later, the alley erupted in machine gun fire, lighting up the walls like flashing lightning. Cipher cried out in pain and fell roughly on top of Dipper, while the sounds of Chopper and Snake Eyes returning fire and the truck’s tires squealing away down the alley drowned out Dipper’s scream. 

The gunfire didn’t last longer than a few seconds. By the time the rest of the gang came pouring out into the alleyway, the figure on the rooftop had fled, and so had the Martinez brothers. Dipper was paralyzed with fear, and he couldn’t do much more than push weakly at the motionless mafioso’s chest. His hands slipped in something warm and sticky, and he quickly pulled them back as if he’d touched a live wire. He stared dumbly for a moment at his crimson-covered hands, and then screamed again. 

Cipher stirred above him. “Ow,” he groaned. “Pipe down, would ya?” 

Dipper was once again stunned into silence. Shakily, Cipher pushed himself up onto his arms above Dipper, blood still dripping down from the bullet holes in his torso like red rain, staining Dipper’s shirt. “I’ll, uh, buy you a new suit,” he said, before sitting back on his haunches with a pained wince. “Flivver, take Snake Eyes, Quill, and Ticker in the car and go after the Martinez brothers!” he barked. After coughing wetly and wiping blood from his mouth with his shirtsleeve, he continued, “The rest of you, do a sweep of the surrounding blocks and find that button man. _Go_.”

The mobsters immediately scrambled to their tasks, half of them jumping onto the sideboards of the nearest automobile with Flivver behind the wheel and tearing out of the alleyway in pursuit of the Martinezs’ truck, the other half scaling fire escapes up to the rooftops or sprinting out around the block to hunt down the shooter. 

Dipper said the only words he thought were appropriate for the situation, which were, _“What the fuck?!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> get a slant - take a look  
> heavy sugar - a lot of money  
> chewing gum - double-speak  
> button man - professional killer
> 
> As for the Spanish, it isn't essential to the plot, but if you're curious, Google Translate and wordreference.com should give you a pretty good idea of what they're saying. I took many years of Spanish in school, but I stopped about a year ago, so I'm rather rusty. If any native speakers or other Spanish students notice any errors, please do correct me. And I'm sorry to say it, but I know absolutely nothing about 1920s Mexican slang and I would probably mess it up if I tried to use it, so all of the Spanish is modern. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Cipher's literary analysis is something I completely made up. I don't think it's a common interpretation, if anyone's said it before at all. So don't repeat it as gospel in an English class or anything.


	9. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you I'd have the next chapter up soon! Hope you like it!
> 
> Warning for mild gore, maybe. I don't think it's that bad, but it's pretty close-quarters.

"Oww, this is not the funny kind of pain," Cipher hissed through bloody teeth as he tried to stand, and then slumped against the alley wall. He left a large smear of blood on the dirty bricks after he caught his breath and pushed away from the wall, managing to stand while keeping just one hand against the bricks for support.

Dipper, on the other hand, was still sitting on the ground covered in Cipher’s blood, watching the mafioso with wide eyes and debating whether to help the man or make a run for it. "You...you were shot," he said, when he finally managed to find his voice.

"Yeah, saving your ass," Cipher replied, before coughing up more blood into his glove.

"You were shot by a machine gun," Dipper continued, building up a good panic now. “You’ve got about twenty holes in you! How are you alive?"

"I'd say it's more like twelve," Cipher said, running a hand over his chest and abdomen, as if he were taking a tally. "A little lead poisoning's not enough to keep me down." There was that manic grin again, but it was made all the more terrifying by the bright red blood on his lips and between his teeth, and by the gleam of vengeance in his eyes.

“A little lead poisoning,” Dipper echoed incredulously. 

“C’mon, kid, we gotta get inside,” Cipher said, beckoning Dipper over. 

At Cipher’s words, Dipper realized that they were essentially sitting ducks in that alley if the shooter doubled back around, or if there were more than one. His shock was finally subsiding, and giving way to adrenaline. He could make a run for it, pack his bags, and buy a ticket on the first train back to California. Pacifica would certainly be a lot less terrifying over the telephone when the time came to explain himself. And Cipher had said that he was free to leave whenever he liked. But more powerful than his self-preservation instincts was his sense of curiosity. He had just seen something that he could not explain. And he wanted an explanation. 

He got to his feet, drew his pistol and, scanning the rooftops, moved quickly to Cipher’s side. He offered the wounded mob boss his arm. Cipher laughed incredulously as he threw an arm around Dipper’s shoulders and leaned his weight against the younger man. “You’re a natural at this, kid,” he said as the two of them made their way back to the tunnel as quickly as Cipher’s limping gait would allow. “You wanna quit your day job and work for me?”

“Not in a million years, Cipher,” Dipper said, ushering the mafioso into the tunnel. Cipher leaned against the wall while Dipper hauled the heavy door shut behind them and swung the latch closed. When he turned back to face the mafioso, there was no mistaking it. The man’s eye was glowing, catlike, in the dark. 

“You were thinking of running,” Cipher said, his voice calm, even, and dangerous. “After I just saved your life.”

“You’re not human,” Dipper said.

Cipher laughed, pushing off from the wall to stand on his own. “No shit, Sherlock. You just figured that out now?” 

Dipper was caught off guard. He had expected Cipher to deny it. He wasn’t even sure if he believed it himself. He could have been hallucinating from some combination of absinthe and adrenaline. But he wasn’t.

“I make no secret of what I am,” Cipher said. 

“And what is that?” Dipper asked. An idea struck him then. It felt like puzzle pieces falling into place. “Are you a muse?”

Cipher seemed stunned by the question. “A…muse?” Then he doubled over laughing, which quickly turned into him clutching his sides in pain and coughing blood onto the tunnel floor. After he’d caught his breath, he placed a hand against the wall to steady himself and wiped more blood from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. “Do I look like a Greek goddess to you?” he asked, still chuckling breathlessly. 

“But– My dream, you said…”

“Ah. I might have misled you a little with that comment,” Cipher admitted. “What I meant was that inspiration doesn’t come from the heart. It comes from the mind, something a great deal more interesting. But I didn’t just—“ he snapped his fingers “—inspire you. What I did was give you access to the core of your own imagination. You were harboring so much anxiety over the success of your first book that you’d pretty much blocked it off. I broke down that barrier and led you through. The rest was all you. All of your ideas were your own.” 

“So…you’re saying you cured my writer’s block?” Dipper asked, still trying to wrap his head around this conversation. 

“You could put it that way!” Cipher said. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“How…? What are you?” Dipper demanded. 

“I thought it was obvious, kid,” Cipher said. “I’m a demon.” 

“A d-demon…?” Dipper took a step back. He was suddenly reconsidering his plan to flee the state. But again, against his better judgment, his curiosity stopped him. Ever since he was a kid exploring the woods of Gravity Falls, he had wondered whether there were things out there that science and reason couldn’t explain, and here was one such inexplicable creature in a top hat and bowtie standing not ten feet away. Dipper _had_ to know the truth. 

“A dream demon, to be more specific,” Cipher was saying as he made his way down the tunnel, walking better on his own with every step. “Although, really, everything related to the mind is within my purview. Dreams just happen to be my specialty.” 

“Wait, wait,” Dipper said, jogging to catch up. “You’re really an honest-to-God, fire and brimstone, demon?”

Cipher raised an eyebrow. “Not quite like you’re thinking, but that’s a whole other can of worms that I don’t really feel like opening right now. For all intents and purposes, yeah, I can do fire and brimstone.”

“Can I see?” Dipper asked, and immediately realized that that was probably the stupidest request he had ever made. 

“I don’t do tricks, kid,” Cipher said.

“O-oh, I didn’t mean– I’m sorry–“ Dipper stuttered, but cut himself off with a gasp when, with a flick of his wrists, blue flames sparked to life and engulfed Cipher's hands, bathing the tunnel in a flickering blue glow. Cipher chuckled, the sound echoing eerily back down the tunnel. When he stepped out into the store room, he snuffed the flames out in his fists, leaving an awestruck Dipper behind in the dark. 

Dipper quickly snapped himself out of his daze and caught up to Cipher again. He had a million more questions on the tip of his tongue, and he opened his mouth to ask whichever one happened to jockey its way to the top of the list first, but Cipher turned and put a finger to Dipper’s lips. 

“Ah ah,” the demon said. “That’s all you’re getting tonight. Now, I need you to do something for me, and considering the list of things I’ve done for you over the past two days, it’s more than fair.”

Dipper grew nervous again. “What is it?”

“That gunner used consecrated bullets – anointed in holy water. That’s why I’m not healing. So,” he said, opening up the weapons cabinet, “you gotta dig the bullets out.” He pulled out a dagger and handed it to Dipper. “I’d do it myself, but my magic won’t work on them, and I won't be able to get the right angle with this thing. Also, I can’t touch ‘em or they’ll burn through my fingers like they’re currently, and quite uncomfortably I might add, burning my insides.”

Dipper stared dumbly down at the knife while Cipher crossed to the nearest table and pulled out one of the chairs, undoing his bowtie and waistcoat buttons as he went. He eased out of his bloody shirt with a hiss, and then sent the ruined garments up in flames. He clapped the ashes from his gloves, and then sat straddling the back of the chair. Blood still trickled down his back from a half dozen bullet holes, which continued in an arc around his side and down his torso. He must have spun as he’d fallen.

For the first time, it really registered with Dipper that the mafioso had saved his life. He had been standing right next to Cipher, between him and the gunman. Cipher could have dove for cover himself, but instead he had pushed Dipper out of the way and taken the fire. This was the least Dipper could do to repay him. Still, whether or not he actually _could_ do it was another issue. Taking a few deep breaths, he joined the wounded mobster by the table. “You sure you want me to do it with this?” he asked, raising the dagger. The razor-sharp blade glinted a sickly yellow under the artificial light. 

Cipher heaved a beleaguered sigh. “Pine Tree, I really don’t give a damn how they come out, they just gotta come out. You could use a rusty bone saw for all I care. Hm, on second thought, grab me a bottle of something off the shelf.”

Dipper eagerly complied, happy to put off starting on his gruesome task for as long as possible. He pulled out a bottle at random, which happened to be vodka. “Is this to sterilize the wounds?” he asked, handing it to Cipher. 

“Excellent choice, kid. And not even close!” he said, cracking open the bottle. “I’m gettin’ fried.” With that, he put the bottle to his lips and tipped it back ninety degrees, swallowing half of its contents in a few big gulps before Dipper ripped the bottle from his hands. 

“What are you doing?!” Dipper demanded. “If the bullets didn’t kill you, that will!”

Cipher wiped his mouth with his glove and shot Dipper an irritated look. “Relax, Pine Tree. Due to my enhanced metabolism, unfortunately, I can’t get that spiffi…splifi…” Cipher frowned. “Drunk,” he settled. 

“Uh huh,” Dipper said skeptically, setting the bottle down on the table behind him. 

“Dry up, wise head,” Cipher said. “And hop to it, would ya? Don’t turn piker on me now.”

“I’m no piker,” Dipper objected. “I can do this! …I can do this,” he said again, more to himself. He hopped up onto the edge of the table behind Cipher and leveled the dagger against the first bullet hole, between Cipher’s shoulder blades and just to the left of his spine. Dipper grimaced, wishing he could close his eyes for the next part. Glancing back at the half-empty bottle of vodka, he came to a decision. His nerves wouldn’t do him or Cipher any good. He grabbed the bottle and took a belt. It tasted awful, and he wanted to spit it back out immediately, but he forced himself to swallow, wincing as it burned his throat on the way down. He heard Cipher snort. “Hey, remember which one of us is holding the big, pointy dagger here,” Dipper warned. 

“Excuse me if I’d forgotten,” Cipher replied, “seeing as you have yet to use it.”

Dipper recognized what Cipher was doing, goading him into it, but it worked regardless. He repositioned the knife and, without giving himself time to think, drove it a few centimeters into the wound. Cipher fell silent, but Dipper could see his muscles tense. There was so much blood, Dipper could barely see what he was doing. The sharp tang of iron hung heavy and suffocating in the room, and Dipper was beginning to feel nauseous. Frustrated, he grabbed the vodka bottle again, and poured some of its contents over the wound to clear it out. He caught a glimpse of metal before it was once more subsumed in blood. He dug the knife in a little deeper and felt the blade chafe against the bullet. In order to pry it out, he needed to wedge the knife in deeper still. 

“Gah! This ain’t archaeology, kid! Quit trying to excavate my damn skeleton!” Cipher snapped. 

In one quick motion, Dipper wedged the tip of the knife under the bullet and pulled back. “Got it!” he said, looking down at the bullet in his palm with no small amount of pride. 

Cipher let out a quiet breath. “Attaboy. Eleven more to go.”

Dipper grimaced as he set the bullet down on the table behind him. “Who invented machine guns, anyway?” 

“Richard Jordan Gatling, 1861,” Cipher said.

“Why do you even know that?” Dipper asked, positioning the dagger over the next bullet wound. This one was shallower, but only because the bullet had embedded itself in the back of Cipher’s ribcage. He noticed, however, that the first wound had already healed over completely, with nothing but drying blood to indicate that it was ever there. 

“I know lots of things,” Cipher replied. 

Dipper got to work on the second bullet. He worked faster and more efficiently with each one, and about fifteen minutes later, he had pulled seven bullets out of Cipher’s back. “Alright,” he said, hopping down from the table, “switch places with me.”

Cipher stood and stretched. “You’re doing great, kid,” he said as he sat down on the edge of the table.

Dipper beamed, which probably made him look a little manic while holding the blood-stained dagger. He took Cipher’s chair and settled himself in front of the demon mobster. Unfortunately, that meant he was no longer between Cipher and the vodka, and Cipher immediately seized the opportunity to toss back most of the rest of the bottle. This time, Dipper just watched in resignation, and before he really knew what he was doing, he had let his eyes wander from Cipher’s throat down the smooth expanse of lean muscle covering his chest and abdomen. His mind had begun to wander, too, when Cipher cleared his throat. “My eye’s up here, kid,” he said with a smirk. 

Dipper yelped like he’d stomped on a bear trap. “I was just examining your injuries!” 

“Uh huh,” Cipher mocked. 

“Dry up, wise head,” Dipper muttered, trying to keep his mind on his work as he placed one hand on Cipher’s chest and steadied the dagger over the next bullet hole just below Cipher’s sternum. It was easier to focus once the blood started flowing again, and his nausea returned. The combination made him want to work as quickly as possible. Still, he and Cipher could both use the distraction of conversation. “Why did you push me out of the way?” Dipper asked. “You could have saved yourself all of this trouble.”

“I like you, kid,” Cipher said. “You’re smart. Easy on the eyes, too.”

“Eye,” Dipper said automatically, before his face flushed at the compliment.

Cipher chuckled. “See what I mean? You’ve got a sharp mind. It would have been a shame to see it splatter all over the wall of some back alley. Besides, I’m looking forward to reading your next book.”

“You mean you’re looking forward to reading about yourself,” Dipper said. 

“Well, that, too,” Cipher said. “I always enjoy reading about myself, but it’s been a while since a writer with actual skill has written about me.” 

“How long is ‘a while’?” Dipper asked. 

“Oh, about three thousand years.” The dagger slipped, and Cipher cursed, cracking the edge of the thick wooden table in his grip. “Ow! What was that for?” he demanded through gritted teeth.

“Sorry, sorry!” Dipper said, mopping up some of the blood with his long-discarded jacket and eyeing the cracked table uneasily. “It’s just– Wow. Who was it?”

“Ever heard of Imhotep?” Cipher asked. 

“The architect of the ancient Egyptian pyramids?” 

“The earliest one, yeah,” Cipher said, impressed. “You really know your stuff, kid.”

“I sort of…researched the occult pretty avidly when I was younger,” Dipper admitted.

“Well then you’ll be familiar with my old name,” Cipher said. “They used to call me Set.”

Dipper stared up at Cipher with wide eyes. “The god of chaos? No way.”

“Yes way, kid. Now, the Egyptian king was supposed to be the incarnation of Ra, which meant that the royal architect also had to dedicate himself and his works to Ra. But as great as his loyalty to the king was, I was the one who taught him magic. So in return, he taught his apprentices to include a secret dedication to yours truly inside each pyramid built under the reigns of the following kings. They taught their apprentices to do the same, and so on, until, ta da, all of the pyramids are monuments to me instead.”

“What about Ra? Wasn’t he angry?” Dipper asked. 

“And how!” Cipher said. “But she didn’t find out until later.”

“Hang on, Ra was a goddess?”

“She generally presented that way, yes,” Cipher said. “We didn’t exactly part on the best of terms, though, so that’s the last you’ll hear about her from me.”

Dipper nodded. “Family can be difficult, I suppose.”

Cipher scoffed. “You don’t know the half of it, kid!”

As Dipper worked on the last bullet, just above Cipher’s hipbone, he ran through some of the things Cipher had said since they’d met, and realized that Cipher had been dropping hints about his true nature almost since minute one. “You were speaking literally when you said that you owned Chopper’s soul, weren’t you?” he asked, careful to keep his voice neutral. 

“Oh, I own all of their souls,” Cipher said, just as casually. “I told you, it’s the best way to assure loyalty. They physically cannot act against me. But I plucked each and every one of them from the gutters and drug dens and smuggling rings and some of the most brutal gangs of this city. I raised them up out of misery and wretchedness, and in comparison to that, their immortal souls were a price they were more than willing to pay.”

Dipper finally got an edge on the bullet and pried it out. Cipher hummed in appreciation, and placed a gentle hand on Dipper’s jaw. Dipper looked up to find Cipher’s face inches from his own. “Thanks, kid,” Cipher murmured, and brought their lips together. It took Dipper a moment to process what was happening, and another to respond, but once he started kissing back, he couldn’t get enough. Cipher’s mouth tasted like blood and smoke and alcohol, and it should have been off-putting, but instead it was _exciting_ , and Dipper stood, wrapping his arms around Cipher’s neck to get a better angle. Cipher’s hands trailed down Dipper’s back and settled on his hips, where he pulled Dipper forward until their bodies were flush against each other. When Cipher bit down on Dipper’s bottom lip, the writer let out an embarrassingly inarticulate sound. 

That sound was followed by loud banging on the metal door at the end of the tunnel. Cipher broke the kiss with a feral growl. “I swear to Apophis I will shoot the next person who interrupts us,” he said, before pushing off of the table and stalking to the door. Dipper was left wondering just what would have happened if they hadn’t been interrupted. 

As soon as Cipher unlatched the door, Flivver’s group burst in, dragging the younger Martinez brother, who was struggling in Snake Eyes’ and Ticker’s grip. When his eyes fell on Cipher, his expression went from shock to rage. “Your men killed my brother!” he spat. 

Snake Eyes shot Cipher an apologetic look. “One out of two ain’t bad, right, boss?”

“Not bad at all,” Cipher said, venom dripping from his words. 

“You should be dead!” Martinez snarled, tears welling in his eyes. 

Cipher laughed cruelly. “I’m afraid whoever paid you off failed to inform you just what you were dealing with.”

Martinez’s face twisted in fury. _“¡Diablo!”_ he screamed. 

Cipher bowed deeply, then looked up at Martinez and smiled. _“A su servicio,”_ he said. 

Martinez screamed again. 

Cipher straightened and turned his attention to his men. “Put the screws on him, boys. Make him sing.”

“Can do, boss,” Ticker said with a wide grin. He and Snake Eyes dragged Martinez kicking and screaming back into the tunnel and through a side door that Dipper hadn’t noticed before in the dark, leaving Quill and Flivver to stand guard. Once the door slammed shut behind them, cutting off Martinez’s screams, Dipper let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He hadn’t been able to watch most of the exchange, and instead chose to fix his gaze on the small pile of bloody bullets in front of him on the table. He frowned, picking one up and wiping some of the blood off the back with his thumb. 

“Hey, Cipher,” he called, “there are letters carved into these.”

He chose to keep his gaze on the bullets rather than the demon when Cipher appeared at his side. “Huh,” Cipher said, picking up the dagger from the table and separating the bullets out and rearranging them with the blade. “Whoever this was has a sense of humor. Some guys call Tommy guns Chicago typewriters; it seems the shooter just wanted to send a…message.”

Alarmed at Cipher's sudden change of tone, Dipper peered over at the bullets as Cipher had arranged them. They spelled:

HELLO BROTHER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lead poisoning - to be shot  
> fried - drunk  
> spifflicated (what Bill was trying to say) - drunk  
> wise head - a smart person  
> piker - coward  
> belt - a drink of liquor  
> and how! - very much so  
> put the screws on - question, torture
> 
> To those of you who have read "Guardians" (the work before this one in the "Providence" series), I am not re-writing the plot of "Guardians" set in the 1920s, but the two do have some connections. All will be revealed in the end, I promise :)


	10. A Crossroads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, so sorry for the upd8 gap. I underestimated my tendency to work hard during the school year and crash hard in the summer. Also this chapter is mostly dialogue and not much action, because I had to break what I thought was going to be one chapter into two :/

Cipher had ordered Flivver to drive Dipper home immediately after that. No explanations, no apologies, not even a “let’s have lunch sometime, kid.” Dipper was given no say in the matter. He would have been seething, if we wasn’t simultaneously so scared and intrigued. Whoever this person – or, more likely, demon – was, they had Cipher rattled. Dipper tried to get more information out of Flivver while he gave directions to his apartment (and wasn’t that something, he was actually giving the mafia directions to where he lived), but the driver was of no help. 

“Sorry, mac, I don’t know from nothin’ about the boss’ real family,” Flivver said as he pulled onto Dipper’s street. “I didn’t even think he had one. I always just assumed he crawled up outa Hell, found himself in the middle of New York City, and decided he wanted to own the place.”

Well, that was interesting. Flivver didn’t seem to know how old Cipher really was. To be fair, Dipper didn’t know either, but he knew the demon was far older than New York City. Had Cipher told him more about himself than he’d told the rest of his family? If so, then why? He’d only just met Dipper the day before. Why trust him with so much personal information? Especially over the men in his employ whose loyalty was, apparently, guaranteed?

The thought occurred to Dipper then that Cipher hadn’t actually trusted him with much of anything. Sure, he had shown him the inner workings of his operation, and revealed his true nature, but nowhere had Dipper picked up on any weaknesses. Cipher hadn't clued Dipper into anything that could actually be used against him. Except consecrated bullets of course, but those just seemed to tick him off. There had to be something else going on. If Cipher really could read him like a book, then the demon would have known just how fascinating details about his life would be to Dipper. Was he sharing all this information simply because he knew it would interest the writer? And if so, the question remained: Why? Was...was all of this an elaborate ploy to get Dipper into bed? Dipper felt his face grow hot, and prayed that Flivver kept his focus on the road. That would certainly be...flattering, he supposed, but it still wouldn't make sense. There was no way Dipper was worth the effort to a creature like Cipher. Besides, the guy could have anyone he wanted, and if he really wanted Dipper that badly, Dipper could admit to himself, it really wouldn't take much effort. 

Dipper sighed. He was probably getting himself in a lather over nothing. After all, it wasn't like Cipher was completely incapable of kindness without ulterior motives. Unless he was, because he was a demon. Was that what being a demon entailed? Rhatz, why was this man so complicated?

"This the place?" Flivver asked, looking up at the "Remington Apartments" sign picked out in gold leaf on the brick building's façade.

"Uh, yes, thank you," Dipper said, collecting his thoughts and shoving open the door. He ignored the fresh bullet holes sprayed across the outside. 

"Nice digs," Flivver said. “Remember what the boss said. You find yourself in any sorta trouble, give us a call. Otherwise, you wait on our word that we’ve got this recent business taken care of before paying us another visit.”

“Yeah, I got it,” Dipper muttered. “How much do I owe you for the ride?” he asked, fumbling for his wallet.

Flivver laughed. “This look like a dimbox to you? If you ever owe us something, you’ll know it.”

“Oh,” said Dipper. “That’s…reassuring.”

Flivver smiled and tipped his hat. “Best of luck, kid,” he said, and drove off. 

Dipper stuffed his wallet pack into his pocket and made his way inside. It was three in the morning. At this rate, his elevator man was going to think he’d gotten involved in some shady business. Which wouldn’t strictly be wrong. At least Cipher had been kind enough to lend him a set of clean (and quite expensive) clothes before he’d ushered Dipper out the door. Unfortunately, Cipher’s sharp, black pinstripe suit with peaked lapels made Dipper look something of a mafia man himself, and this time, the normally talkative elevator man said nothing to Dipper on their ascent.

As soon as he was back in his apartment he began running himself a hot bath to wash away the last traces of Cipher’s blood. Despite the late hour, he took his time, letting the hot water ease the tension from his muscles. When he closed his eyes, the events of the night replayed behind his eyelids. He had been shot at and kissed in the same night, and he wondered what it said about him that he found himself focusing more on the latter. He may have accepted his own romantic preferences some time ago, but he had always felt somewhat ashamed when kissing another man. Perhaps that was why none of his few relationships had lasted very long. But because Cipher was so blatantly and shamelessly a bad person, Dipper felt like a veritable saint in comparison. He didn’t feel like he was _tainting_ Cipher in any way. If anything, the reverse was true, and he should really be concerned about that. Instead, he found himself wondering whether that kiss meant anything to Cipher, and when he would see him again. 

Dipper still wasn’t an expert on how the mob operated, but he was certain that firing on the head of a family in his own territory demanded retaliation, and could possibly even lead to a turf war. Whatever Cipher was planning, it wasn’t going to be pretty, and despite Dipper’s initial irritation at being sent home like a child out past his curfew, Dipper really was grateful that Cipher had decided to keep him out of it. Whatever creature called Cipher “brother,” Dipper had no desire to meet. 

He would probably be waiting a while on Cipher’s call, however. At least he had plenty of material to work with in the meantime. Still, he wondered what would become of the younger Martinez brother, and whether Chopper and the others would catch or kill the rooftop messenger. 

The water had turned cold. Dipper stepped out of the porcelain tub and toweled himself dry. He padded into the bedroom and hung Cipher’s clothes up in the back of his closet, then slipped into his silk pyjamas. (He still couldn’t believe he _owned_ silk pyjamas now.) At least tomorrow he would be back in his element: at his desk, churning out a new chapter on his lovely Underwood. 

The next morning, he remembered none of his dreams.

o~~o

The harsh trill of the telephone jerked Dipper out of his trance, and he paused in his typing, but didn’t immediately rush to answer it. Instead he remained seated at his desk, listening to the sound, paralyzed with something like terror. There were only two people it was likely to be: Cipher or Pacifica. He had no idea what Cipher would say, he knew exactly what Pacifica would say, and he dreaded them both almost equally at this point. Whoever it was wasn’t hanging up, however, and neither Cipher nor Pacifica would take well to being ignored. 

With significant effort, he shoved himself to his feet and dashed to the telephone. “…Hello?” he greeted cautiously. 

“Gosh, what took you so long, Brobro? Did you lock yourself in the bathroom again?”

Dipper heaved a sigh of relief. He had never been happier to hear his sister's voice. He laughed. “That was one time, Mabes. And I was twelve.”

“I’ve learned never to underestimate your ability to get yourself stuck in weird situations,” Mabel said, her smile audible in her playful barb. 

Dipper laughed again, but nervously this time. Mabel didn’t know the half of it. There was no way he was going to tell her about the latest “weird situation” he’d gotten himself stuck in. He would have liked nothing more than to seek her advice – she had a unique way of thinking, _divergent_ was the word, and it often allowed her to see her way around a problem or come up with an entirely new solution that hadn’t seemed to be on the table earlier – but not when the more she knew, the more danger she would be in. Just because Dipper was practically in bed with the mafia— Er, that was a poor choice of idiom. At any rate, he would not involve his sister in his latest mess. 

"I'm fine," Dipper said. "I was just writing, and I guess I was kind of dead to the world."

Mabel hummed knowingly. "Yeah, I know how you get. So you _have_ been writing and not just partying all day and night?"

"Partying? Since when have I ever partied?"

Mabel chuckled. "Glad to know you haven't changed too much, Dipper. But if you haven't been out partying, then what gives? Why haven’t you called?” she demanded. "You promised we'd talk every week!"

"Well it hasn't technically been a week yet..." Dipper hedged, but he quickly abandoned his argument when he heard Mabel inhale so she could begin berating him for as long as possible before she was forced to breathe again. "Alright, alright," he continued quickly, "I meant to call you earlier, but things have been a little hectic. I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted, Brobro. Has Pacifica been taking good care of you? Does she make sure you eat at least two meals a day?"

"Er, yes, Pacifica's been grand," Dipper said. "I don't know what I would have done if I'd come here without knowing anyone.”

“Have you made any new friends?” Mabel asked. “Pacifica says there’s a group of hotshot writers who meet every week at the Algonquin Hotel; they call themselves the Round Table. Apparently they’ll be pounding down your door to invite you as soon as they hear you’ve moved to the city.”

“Yeah, the Round Table’s all over the papers here. Probably because they _run_ half of the papers here. To be honest, they don’t seem very different from the hundreds of other high hat social clubs in this city, and I’m not interested in that whole song and dance. The Round Table also call themselves 'The Vicious Circle'. I plan on giving the Algonquin a wide berth.”

Mabel sighed. “I’m certain you’re not using your fame correctly.”

Dipper chuckled. “You’re probably right. But Pacifica introduced me to her friends Laila and Mina, and they seem darb. Laila’s even a fan of mine.”

Dipper could practically hear his sister’s eyebrows wiggling over the phone when she said, “Ooh, is this Laila a keen lady?”

Flustered, he replied, “I– I suppose, but you know I don’t…you know.”

“Aw, I know, Dip-dop. I was only teasing,” she said. “Any dapper fellas, then?”

“Mabel!” Dipper objected in a harsh whisper. 

“Oh, don’t cast a kitten. I’m serious. I want to know about my brother’s life. You know you can talk to me about anything, right? I’ve always known you’re a weirdo, and I wouldn’t have you any other way. So don't be so embarrassed! There’s just about nothing you can do or say that will surprise me anymore.” 

Dipper wondered if that would include making out with Public Enemy Number One. “I’m not embarrassed,” he lied. “It’s just— it hasn’t even been a week, Mabel. How would I have met someone already?”

Mabel scoffed. “You, dear brother, are rich, famous and handsome. Not to mention you have the cutest little kitten sneezes—“

“Mabel, stop,” Dipper groaned. “Really…there’s no one.”

“ _Yet_ ,” Mabel insisted. “But that’s good, because that means you’ll have plenty of time for me to visit this weekend!”

“Sure— Wait, what?”

“I’ve already talked to Pacifica and she said she’ll take me shopping on Fifth Avenue, and of course we’ll have to see a show on Broadway. Oh, and she’s going to take us both out to a snazzy dinner so we can finally meet her mysterious fiancée. I wonder what he’s like… Anyway, you’ll have to get the guest room ready for me, because I wouldn’t dream of staying anywhere else.”

A feeling of dread descended upon Dipper as he listened to Mabel go on about the details of her impending visit. She had picked the worst possible time, with Bill Cipher possibly engaged in a gang war, possibly courting him, possibly both. Not to mention, he was certain Pacifica would be furious with him as soon as she found out about their arrangement. But most importantly, if there was trouble stirring among the New York gangs, then because of Dipper’s new association with the Cipher family, it may not be safe for Mabel there. But he couldn’t think of an excuse to delay her. Not without telling her some portion of the truth. 

“Dipper?” 

“Sorry, Mabel, I was just… I miss you, tremendously. But New York is a big city, and it’s dangerous here. I could come back and visit you instead. We could even drive up to Oregon and visit Stan.”

“Dipper,” Mabel said again, in a warning tone, “you’re being overprotective again. We’re not kids anymore; we can both take care of ourselves. I want to see New York City, and I want to see you and Pacifica. Besides, it can’t be that dangerous – people go there all the time.”

“Mabel, there are gangs—“

“Piffle. I hear the gangs are like snakes: if you leave them alone, they’ll leave you alone. Remember the Corduroy Crew? They acted tough, but they were really a bunch of softies.”

“These gangs are nothing like Wendy’s older brothers,” Dipper said. 

“Oh, are you suddenly a gang expert now?”

“Uh… Well, no, but…”

“That’s what I thought,” Mabel said triumphantly. “Listen, Dipper, I read the national papers. I know the dangers of the big cities. And I know you’re only worried about my safety. I worry about you all the time living over there, but I didn’t stop you. And now, I’m coming to see you this weekend whether you like it or not. So make up the guest room for me.” Before Dipper could protest again, she hung up. 

With a frustrated sigh, Dipper hung the receiver back on the hook and sat down in the middle of the hall. He had expected no less from his sister. She was just as stubborn as he was, and he knew from extensive experience that she was a strong and capable person when the situation called for it. But no amount of strength of character could stop a bullet. He needed to find out what was going on. 

He stood and reached for the telephone again, with a mind to disregard Cipher’s instructions to wait, and demand some answers instead. It began to ring before he touched it. He nearly leapt out of his skin. 

“Hello?” he answered. 

“Ah, Mr. Pines, I’ve been trying to reach you.” It was Conrad. “I have a Miss Pacifica Northwest to see you down here in the lobby. Shall I send her up?”

Well, this probably wouldn’t end well. He still had no idea what he was going to tell her, but he would only make things worse by avoiding her. Reluctantly, he replied, “Yes, please do.”

Too soon, there was a knock at the door. Dipper let Pacifica in, and as usual, she didn’t waste any time on pleasantries. What Dipper usually found to be her most refreshing quality, he was quickly coming to dread. “Why were you with Cipher at The Gold-Bug last night?” she asked, eyes narrowed in scrutiny as she stalked toward him. 

Dipper took an involuntary step back. “What– what did Laila tell you?”

“Some crazy line about ‘research’. I told you to call him, Dipper, not go down there and socialize with him and his hatchet men!”

“Yes, I know, and it was a foolish thing to do, but will you hear me out?” Dipper pleaded. 

“I’m listening,” Pacifica said. 

Dipper took a long, steady breath before continuing. “Laila told you the truth. I really was there doing research for my next book.”

“And just what kind of research would that be?”

Dipper hesitated, then said quietly, “I'm...writing about the mafia.” Pacifica gave him a hard look, but remained silent, willing to hear him out like she’d promised. “But going down there wasn’t my idea,” Dipper continued quickly. “I called Cipher last night, like you said, but I caught him at a bad time, so he told me to meet him there.”

“Why didn’t he just tell you to call back later like a normal person?” Pacifica interjected. 

“What about Bill Cipher gave you the impression that he was a normal person?” Dipper countered. Pacifica, reluctantly, conceded the point. “I was going to simply pay my respects, say thank you but no thank you, and leave, but… Well, uh, we got to talking… Actually, _he_ did most of the talking, but—“

“Dipper, spill,” Pacifica said.

“Alright, alright,” he said. “But I want you to know, first off, that it wasn’t a deal.”

Pacifica went very still. “What wasn’t a deal?” she whispered. 

Dipper cringed. “Well, Cipher…sort of…offered to help me with my research. Because he thinks the book might be good publicity for him.”

“And you accepted his offer?” Pacifica asked, her expression still taut, her voice low. Dipper felt as though every facet of him were being examined. 

“I…I said I’d give it a shot,” Dipper answered, no longer able to meet his friend’s eyes for fear of what he would see. He was surprised, therefore, when he heard Pacifica let out a trembling breath. She was pinching the bridge of her nose and shaking her head, not so much in anger as…fear. Pacifica was scared.

“Why was it so hard for you to just say no to this guy like I asked you to? Like you promised?” Her voice broke on the last word. 

Dipper swallowed hard, but guilt was quickly constricting his throat. “I…I’m sorry, Pacifica. But Cipher was heeled, and I don’t think he’s someone used to hearing the word ‘no’.”

“He’s not going to shoot you for saying no. It’s once you’ve said yes that you’re in danger. I thought you were smart enough to know that.”

“I didn’t make a deal with him,” Dipper insisted. “I didn’t accept any money, and I didn’t make any promises. I owe him nothing.” _Except my life_ , he thought. 

Pacifica scoffed. “Do you realize how much you sound like him right now? What is your arrangement with him if it’s not a deal?”

“I...suppose it’s a gamble. Cipher’s gambling on whether my book will help or harm him.”

When Pacifica looked up at him, he realized there were tears in her eyes. “You’re the one who’s gambling, Dipper. With your life.”

“I…I know. But it’s mine to gamble with, isn’t it?” Dipper asked quietly.

Pacifica looked shocked. And then furious. “That is the most selfish thing I have ever heard! And keep in mind who my father was.”

“What?” It was Dipper’s turn to be angry, and it burned away most of his paralyzing fear and guilt. “I am nothing like your father! And what Cipher did to him, and to your family was horrible, and there’s no excusing it, but Preston was a monster! You said so yourself. You can’t tell me you and Priscilla aren’t happier without him!”

Dipper knew immediately that he had crossed a line, and he began to apologize, but the words died on his lips as Pacifica just stared at him. Then, calmly, she said, “Of course we’re happier without him. I don’t give a damn about my father. I care about _you_. _Your_ safety.” She turned on her heel and walked back to the door. When she reached it, she looked back at Dipper over her shoulder. “I will be civil at dinner this weekend, for Mabel’s sake. But other than that, the next time I hear from you, I expect you to have come to your senses and broken off whatever this arrangement is that you have with Bill Cipher. Because however much of a monster my father was, Cipher is a hundred times worse. I’ll call Mabel when I’ve made our dinner reservations. Get the information from her.” Those were Pacifica’s last words before she left and shut the door behind her.

Dipper stared at the door until the silence of his apartment began to ring in his ears, completely at a loss for what to do next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don’t know from nothing - doesn’t have any information  
> get in a lather - get worked up  
> darb - a great person or thing  
> keen - attractive  
> cast a kitten - have a fit  
> piffle - nonsense  
> heeled - armed


	11. The Eye of the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry, guys. The internship I was doing really monopolized my time. And on top of that, I've fallen into Dragon Age: Inquisition hell. But there aren't that many chapters left of this fic, and I may still finish before the end of (my) summer. And JSYK, I wrote some of this chapter on my own Underwood typewriter :)
> 
> On a completely unrelated side note, I've had the strangest temptation to write a BillDip western AU called Fool's Gold set during the gold rush (which was Bill's doing of course). I'm not /gonna/ write it, but it's really oddly tempting.

The week passed tense and uneventful. Dipper had tried to ring Cipher a number of times, but the man never seemed to be home. He browsed the local bookshop a few times. He met Mina for drinks one evening at an underground jazz club in Harlem called The Snake Charmer. She didn’t push him to tell her any more than he wanted to, but he found he wanted to unburden himself, at least a little. He ended up telling her as much as he had told Pacifica about his night at The Gold-Bug. She was patient and calm, and when he finished, all she did was sigh. “You’re running with wolves, Dipper,” she said, taking a long, contemplative sip of her amber-colored cocktail. “But it sounds to me like you’re keeping up.” He thought a lot about what Mina said that night, and what she meant. He finished three chapters of his novel.

On Friday night, he lay in bed reading a collection of poetry by lamplight and listening to the rumblings of a storm outside. He had found the little volume in the bookshop that morning, and thought it might make a nice gift for Mabel. She would be arriving early the next day. He really was looking forward to seeing her. He would focus on that, he decided. He was probably overthinking the rest, anyway. Whatever hot water Cipher and his family were in, Dipper saw no reason it should involve him. 

The problem was – he quickly realized – that if he allowed himself to worry less about Mabel, he just might begin to worry about Cipher. He tried vaguely to recall whether he had learned anything during his schooling about insanity being contagious, because it certainly seemed like so much exposure to Cipher’s brand of insanity was beginning to have a highly detrimental effect on his rational thought processes.  

He was so concerned with the state of his mind that he questioned whether or not he was really hearing knocking on his door at two in the morning, or whether his mind was playing tricks on him. When the knocking didn’t cease, but instead grew louder and more insistent, Dipper threw off the bedsheets and rushed to the door before whoever it was woke up the rest of the tenants in the building. 

He came face to face with a sopping wet Bill Cipher. Dipper could do little more than step aside as Cipher stalked in looking like a drowned cat, took off his hat and flogger and hung them on the rack beside the door. He stood the cello case he was carrying against the wall beside it. “I gotta borrow your telephone,” Cipher said, in a way that made it explicitly clear he was not asking for permission. 

Still speechless, Dipper simply pointed down the hall. Cipher swept past and snatched up the receiver without saying anything more. He waited barely a second after dialing a number before he began to speak. “The Chinatown boys got the message. Where are you with her gunrunners?” Cipher was obviously displeased with the answer he received. “Then you just have to remind them of the full cost of doing business with our competitors,” he snarled. “This is the reason I hired you two – so I don’t have to do all of this shit myself. But now, I’m not speaking to you as the man who owns this city. I’m speaking to you as the demon who owns your souls. _Get the job done._ ” 

Cipher hung the receiver back on the hook and flashed Dipper a smile that was obviously fake. Dipper managed to find his voice, if only to mumble about the Persian carpet that Cipher was standing on, which Pacifica had given him as a housewarming present. Not that she needed any more reason to murder Dipper at the moment.  

Cipher looked down at the puddle forming beneath his Oxfords, then back up at Dipper. His harsh smile softened a little at the edges. “My apologies, Pine Tree. It’s raining pitchforks out there. I guess I owe ya a new carpet now, too.”  

“No, no, you don’t owe me anything, really,” Dipper was quick to object. “Except, I think, an explanation.” Unlike Cipher, Dipper’s demands tended to come out sounding much more like polite requests. 

So Dipper was, naturally, a little surprised when Cipher said, “Fair enough. Where should I start?”

Dipper ran a hand through his hair nervously. “First things first. Do you ever sleep?”

Cipher glanced down at the volume of poetry still in Dipper’s hand, then back up. “Do you?” 

Dipper opened his mouth to argue, but realized he didn’t have an argument. At any rate, a more important thought occurred to him. “How did you get past the doorman?” Cipher raised an eyebrow, amused. “You’re right,” Dipper conceded. “Better question: what did you do to the doorman?”

“He’s alive and well,” Cipher said. “I just made him forget that he ever saw me.” 

“Right…” Dipper said, pretending he knew what Cipher meant. As long as Conrad was unharmed, Dipper didn’t much care how Cipher had done it.What mattered was that the mobster was there. In his apartment. At a very late hour. Dipper shook his head, frustrated with his lack of focus. 

Meanwhile, Cipher was was watching him, a slight smile lingering on his lips. Just as Dipper was about to ask what the hell was going on, Cipher said, “You still got those duds I lent ya?”

Dipper, backpedalling, merely said, “O-of course. They’re in my closet.”

“Capital,” Cipher said. “I find myself in need of some dry clothes.”

Dipper couldn’t quite keep the shock from his voice when he said, “You intend to stay?”

“You have more questions, don’t ya?” Cipher said in reply, his expression insufferably smug. But he was right. Dipper couldn’t let him leave without knowing what had happened since he’d seen the demon last. Resignedly, he pointed in the direction of his bedroom. Cipher inclined his head in thanks, then made his way down the hall. He glanced back over his shoulder once and shot Dipper a wink before closing the bedroom door behind him with a wave of his hand. 

“Vamp,” Dipper muttered under his breath. Then, loud enough so Cipher could hear, “Meet me out in the living room when you’re done! And don’t muck with anything in there!” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, kid!” Cipher called back, although his snicker made the assurance somewhat less assuring. 

Dipper resigned himself to the idea that he was going to be up for a while longer, and made himself some coffee. The menial task did not aid him much in taking his mind off the fact that Cipher was undressing in his bedroom just down the hall. He considered pouring a second cup of coffee for the mobster just for the extra distraction, but decided that unannounced, late-night visits to his apartment was behavior that should not be encouraged.  

He lit a fire in the hearth, sat down in one of the armchairs in the living room with his steaming cup of coffee and waited. Cipher did not keephim waiting long. "That's a nice mill you've got in the other room," Cipher said from the doorway. Dipper must have looked startled, because Cipher laughed. "Don't worry, I didn't touch it." Instead of taking the other armchair, he opted to lean against the mantelpiece with his arms crossed. “You want to know what happened Monday night after I sent you home.” It wasn’t a question. Dipper nodded anyway. “My boys didn’t catch the button man,” Cipher said. “But we got all we needed out of Martinez.”

“Did you kill him?” Dipper asked, not because he really wanted to know, but because he had to know. 

“Of course I killed him,” Cipher replied, as easily as if he were talking about the weather. But when he noticed Dipper’s expression, he added, “Some things I can’t let slide.”

Dipper swallowed the lump of remorse in his throat. “I understand.” And he did. If Cipher had let Martinez go, it would have been a sign of weakness. It would have sent a message that anyone could betray the Cipher family to their enemies without consequence. Besides, they had killed Martinez’s brother. He would have been a liability if they had let him live. 

Cipher smiled. “I knew you would. We’re working on the bigger problem now. In the meantime, I’ve got Matches tailing ya. You’ll be safe.”  

Dipper stared at the mafioso, slack-jawed. “You _what_?”  

“There’s a killer on the loose,” Cipher said, cocking his head in a way that reminded Dipper of a bird of prey.

The skin on the back of his neck began to prickle with unease, but Dipper stuck to his figurative guns. Cipher couldn’t possibly expect him to be satisfied with that explanation. “What’s really going on, Cipher? I thought I was just being paranoid, but am I in real danger?”

“I just said you weren’t. I’m keeping an eye on you.” Dipper may have imagined it, but he thought he saw Cipher’s eye flash fiery blue for a second. 

“I need to be able to look out for myself, too,” Dipper reasoned. “And I can’t do that if I don’t know what I’m looking for.” 

Cipher’s lip twitched, but not in a smile. Were his teeth sharper than the last time Dipper had seen him? “It’s really none of your business, kid.”

“It became my business when I was nearly shot!” Dipper said. Cipher, however, looked unimpressed. Perhaps he was regretting preventing that outcome. So Dipper switched tactics. “It’ll be off the record.” 

A low chuckle rumbled in Cipher’s chest, almost a growl. “What makes you think that chip was ever yours to bargain with?”

Dipper ground his teeth in frustration. “What do you want, my soul?”

“You offering?” 

“No!” 

“Tease,” Cipher muttered.  

Dipper absolutely did not blush at that. Not a bit. But just in case, he focused intently on the floor at Cipher’s feet. “Please, Cipher.” 

He looked up when he saw Cipher step forward. The demon crossed the room to stand in front of Dipper, and reached out a gloved hand to tip Dipper’s chin up with two fingers. “Now that’s a pretty picture,” Cipher said, barely a whisper. “Maybe if you ask me again, on your knees.” 

Dipper glared up at him, defiant. He might have considered it, had he not been so furious at Cipher’s inability to take matters seriously. Cipher sighed, rolling his eye as he dropped his hand to his side. “Yeesh, Pine Tree, I was just messing with ya. If you’d looked any more pathetic, you might just have moved my cold, black heart.”

“So you’ll tell me what’s going on?” Dipper pressed.

“Fine, fine,” Cipher said, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s a little embarrassing, really. It’s my sister.” 

“Your…” Dipper trailed off, eyes widening as he recalled what Cipher had told him at The Gold-Bug. “You don’t mean _Ra_?”

“She goes by a different name now like I do, but same entity. We’ve never really gotten along, but we tolerated each other’s existence. Until this particular family feud began a couple thousand years ago, and ever since then she’s made it her life’s work to meddle in my affairs. Her latest move has been to take over all the territory uptown. Those bosses all used to report to me. Now, they’ve stopped. Some of ‘em are dead, some need to be reminded _why_ they report to me. But she’s my problem, and I’m dealing with her. There’s nothing you can do.”

Dipper took a minute to process the new information. Cipher watched him closely, almost like he could see the gears turning in Dipper’s head. Hell, maybe he could. “Deal with?” Dipper finally asked. 

“Relax, kid, neither of us can really kill the other. But I can convince her to back off. Usually with the application of a lot of pain.” Cipher’s smile glinted in the firelight. 

Dipper tried to keep the expression of horror from his face when he asked, “What on earth happened between you two?”

“Again, that’s not really any of your business. I’ve told you what you wanted to know.”

“Not all of it,” Dipper said. “Why would she be interested in me?”

Cipher scoffed. “Because I’m interested in you, kid. She’s just that petty.”

“Even if that’s true, how would she even know about me?”

“Her messenger saw me push you out of the line of fire,” Cipher said. “That’d be enough for her. Just the kinda thanks I get for doing one good deed.”

“…I see,” Dipper said. He set his coffee aside. It had gone cold. “Well, since your homicidal solar deity of a sister may have my number, I really would appreciate being kept in the loop from here on out." He didn't know why he wasn't more alarmed at the prospect of an ancient god wanting him dead. None of it seemed real. 

"There won't be much more to tell," Cipher said. "I've got my boys tracking down her hideout now, and when they find it, that'll be that. She'll run with her tail between her legs. She never goes toe to toe with me anymore, not since... Well, let's just say I'm a lot stronger than she is now. She knows it'll be no contest if it actually comes down to a fight."

"I..." Dipper shook his head, trying to think clearly. But it was late, and the warmth of the coffee had just made him more tired. "I think I have to sleep on all of this."

Cipher pouted. "You're not gonna throw me out in the storm, are ya? I could catch cold." 

Dipper eyed him skeptically. "I don't think you could." 

"Well, I can _feel_ cold." Cipher leaned forward, bracing himself on the armrests of Dipper's chair. His lips were inches from Dipper's ear when he whispered, "Let me stay." Dipper couldn't decide whether he wanted to sink back into the chair or give Cipher what he wanted, anything he wanted. His mind was made up when Cipher added, "I'll make it worth your while,” and grazed sharp teeth against the curve of Dipper’s ear.   

Dipper tilted his head slightly, and he felt Cipher smile against his throat before he bit down. Dipper gasped. Cipher hadn’t quite drawn blood, but that was definitely going to leave a mark. Cipher licked a hot stripe up the side of Dipper’s neck before nibbling at his bottom lip. Still rather sleep-deprived and frazzled, Dipper didn’t even make a conscious decision to let Cipher in before they were kissing, hard. 

He half expected the mafioso to crawl into the chair with him, but instead Cipher pulled Dipper to his feet, kiss unbroken. His hands snaked around Dipper’s waist and pulled them flush against each other, and Dipper found his fingers tangled in Cipher’s strange, two-tone hair. When his thumb brushed against the strings of Cipher’s eyepatch, the demon pulled back. “You can take everything off but that, kid.” 

“W-why?” Dipper asked, panting.

“Well, I’m assuming you value your sanity. If not, then go ahead.”

Dipper swallowed hard and nodded. He willed his hands not to shake as he set to work on Cipher's shirt buttons. The task was made much more difficult when Cipher's fingers slipped beneath the waistband of Dipper's pyjama pants. Dipper took a moment to remind himself how to breathe, and muttered, "I'm going to Hell for this, aren't I?" 

"I'll make it a fun ride," Cipher promised, his breath scorching Dipper's stinging lips. Then he pulled Dipper down the hall toward the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> snake charmer - female bootlegger  
> flogger - overcoat  
> raining pitchforks - a downpour  
> vamp - an aggressive flirt  
> mill - typewriter


	12. Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, so sorry for the upd8 delay. I hope you've stayed with me. And I hope you enjoy the double-length chapter! Since I'm almost done with finals, I plan to have the next chapter up soon, because it will be the last, and because...well, you'll see.

“Hey, Pine Tree. There’s someone at the door. Tell ‘em to beat it.”

Dipper groaned and shoved his face further into his pillow. “You do it,” he muttered automatically. 

He felt the person beside him shift, and then something sharp dragged delicately across his throat, not applying enough pressure to break the skin, but enough to send shivers down his spine. “That’s funny, I seem to remember us having a conversation about you telling me what to do.”

Dipper’s eyes shot open, and as the haze of sleep fled his mind, the memories of the previous night’s…er…indiscretions returned with perfect clarity. Bill Cipher lay beside him, raised up on one elbow with his chin propped in his hand. His other hand rested lightly against Dipper’s throat, one short, black claw poised leisurely at his jugular. He regarded Dipper nonchalantly as he traced the vein down the column of Dipper’s throat. Dipper lay stock still, afraid to move or speak. When Cipher reached his clavicle, a quick curl of his claw made a shallow cut over Dipper’s collarbone, but before Dipper could pull away, Cipher leaned in to lap up the single bead of blood. 

Dipper hissed in air through his teeth. “C-Cipher,” he exhaled. 

The demon chuckled against his throat. “I think you oughta call me Bill now, don’t you?” There was a loud, insistent knock at the front door. Cipher rolled his eye and huffed out an irritated breath. “Like I said. Door. Really, what on earth are you paying that doorman for?”

More of Dipper’s wits returned to him, and he had the sense to glance at his alarm clock on the nightstand, only to find a pile of gears, springs and twisted metal. “Wh-what happened to the alarm clock?!” he demanded. 

“That thing?” Cipher– _Bill_ , replied with disdain. “It was making a racket, so I shut it up. I’ll buy you a new one if you want.”

“This is becoming a pattern with you, isn’t it?” Dipper mused, still somewhat dazed. Surely he was still dreaming, and he would wake up any minute alone, as usual, and the demon mobster would be somewhere, _anywhere_ else. 

The knocking started up again, and this time a voice came with it: “Dippeeeeerrrrrr! Get your lazy behind out of bed and let me in!”

Dipper shot up and grabbed his dressing gown off the rack against the wall, tying the belt hurriedly about his waist. “Shit, that’s Mabel!” he hissed. He combed his fingers quickly through his messy hair as he looked himself over in the standing mirror. “Just a minute!” he yelled back, despairing over the multitude of scratches and bite marks Bill had left all over his body. 

Bill sat up in bed, and Dipper was briefly distracted by the way the sheets pooled at his hips. The mafioso raised an eyebrow. “Who’s Mabel?” he asked. 

It was Dipper’s turn to roll his eyes. “She’s my sister, not that it’s any of your business.” He tugged the collar of his dressing gown up around his neck to hide the particularly deep bite mark Bill had given him out in the living room. 

“Well, tell her to come back in a couple hours,” Bill said, eyeing Dipper hungrily. “Unless she’d like to join us…”

“No!” Dipper threw a clock part at the demon, horrified. “That’s disgusting! And she’s not leaving, you are.” He threw Bill his clothes next. 

“Am I?” Bill said, voice even. His expression told Dipper that he ought to choose his next words very carefully.

“Please,” Dipper added quickly. “Mabel can’t know I’m, er, involved with the mafia. You understand that, right?”

“So I don’t even get to meet this charming sister of yours?” Bill drawled, pulling on his shirt and trousers at a distractingly leisurely pace. 

“Not like this you don’t!” Dipper snapped back, emboldened somewhat by the knowledge that Bill was, for once, unarmed. Not that he suspected the demon had much need of weapons… Dipper shoved open his window and gestured to the fire escape outside. 

“Fine,” Bill said airily. “But I am _not_ climbing out the window like some petty crook on the lam.” He stalked over to Dipper, who warily backed away until his back hit the wall. Bill stopped bare inches in front of him, and murmured against Dipper’s parted lips, “Catch ya later, Pine Tree.” Then, with a snap of his fingers, he was gone. 

Dipper blinked, scrubbed his eyes. When Mabel called his name again, he finally dashed to the front door. Upon opening it, he immediately had his arms full of a bouncy and excited Mabel.

“Dipper! I can’t believe we’re in New York City together! The buildings are so _huge_! I can’t wait to see the lights come on at night! I bet it’s the most beautiful thing in the world!”

Mabel’s jittery excitement was as contagious as ever, and soon Dipper found himself giggling along with her, and returning her asphyxiating hug as best he could manage. Finally, he held her out at arm’s length so he could actually see her face when he spoke to her. “It’s great to have you here, Mabes,” he said, and he meant it. It was selfish, he knew, but having his twin by his side was just what he needed right now. “And wow, you look spiffy! I think you’ve already got a better handle on this city than I do.” Mabel was all dudded up in heels, lacy stockings and gloves, and a rose-pink drop-waist dress with a large, lace bow at the bust. She wore a jaunty pink woolen hat over hair that fell in loose curls just below her jaw. The haircut was new, as were the clothes, Dipper suspected. But the style suited her. 

“And you’re…still in your dressing gown,” Mabel said, frowning. “Did you forget I was coming?”

“No, of course not,” Dipper replied. “But I did…forget to wind my alarm clock. So I overslept. Here, let me get your luggage and show you the guest room, and you can settle in while I get dressed properly,” he said, hoping to move on quickly from the subject. He picked up Mabel’s enormous suitcase and staggered a little under the weight. What on earth did his sister pack, cinderblocks? 

“It’s alright, Bro-bro, I’ve got it,” she said, bending to take the handle from Dipper. “Since when did you take up the cello?”

Dipper tensed, following Mabel’s gaze to the black cello case, still propped up against the wall where Bill had left it the night before. He couldn’t believe that Bill had left his _machine gun_ in Dipper’s apartment. “I haven’t,” Dipper said quickly. “That belongs to a friend.”

“Aw, see? I told you you’d make friends,” Mabel cooed. “Hey, what’s that?” She pointed behind Dipper, and he turned to look over his left shoulder. He realized his mistake an instant later, but it was too late. Mabel gasped and shoved her palm against Dipper’s cheek to keep his head turned while she pulled down the collar of his dressing gown to examine his neck. “I knew it! Either you had a run-in with a vampire, or…” She grinned broadly, releasing him from her unnervingly strong grip. 

Dipper felt the blush creep all the way down his neck. “Uh…”

“So, who is he? When do I get to meet this city-slicker who’s corrupting my brother’s innocence?” she asked, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. “And I thought falling for bad boys was my routine!”

That made Dipper blush even harder. “You’re all wet! I-it’s not like that, really.”

Mabel gave him a skeptical look. “So it _was_ a vampire?” 

“No, it’s just…we’re not…uh, really together.”

Mabel’s eyes widened. “Is he married?”

“No! It’s just…he’s not the type of person anyone _sane_ should spend a lot of time around.”

Mabel smiled. “Well, he sounds like fun to me. Especially if he’s a musician! Does he play in a jazz band?” 

“Can we please talk about this later?” Dipper grumbled. 

“Fine,” Mabel sighed. “But later _means_ later. I will bring this up again.”

“I look forward to it,” Dipper muttered. He showed his sister to her room, where he left her to unpack while he made himself decent (which included playing the fun game of _which one of my shirts has the highest collar?_ ). They went out for a late breakfast together at a quaint little neighborhood tea and coffee joint, during which time Mabel alternated between stuffing an unnatural amount of pastries in her mouth and talking excitedly about all of the things she wanted to do and see in New York. Dipper filled her in on his (non-Bill-Cipher-related) experiences of the city thus far, and she marveled at his lavish descriptions of the speakeasies, and the hotels, and the theaters, and the rapid pace of big city life. He may have embellished a few things here and there, but he felt that was his prerogative as a writer, as long as it made for a better story. 

After breakfast, Mabel had a full day planned out on the town with Pacifica. Dipper saw her safely into a taxicab, and then headed downtown himself for a walk through the peaceful forestry of Central Park. Seeing Mabel made him miss their childhood summers back in Gravity Falls. While she may be starry-eyed for the big city, Dipper had begun to yearn for the calm of nature amidst the recent chaos. Later that evening, he would meet up with Mabel, Pacifica and Pacifica’s fiancée at a restaurant called Abernathy’s only a few long blocks from the park. In the meantime, he found the perfect park bench under a fiery orange tree, and pulled out his pocket notebook and pen to do some writing. 

He watched the people pass, the shadows grow longer, and the sun sink slowly behind the trees. Soon it was dark, and he hadn’t written more than a few sentences. He’d been too busy thinking, wondering if he was quite himself. Would the Dipper Pines he thought he knew really have gotten romantically entangled with the leader of a notorious crime family? A killer? A monster, in more than one sense? And if so, wouldn’t he at least feel regret? Disgust? Fear? Did feeling none of those things make him a monster, too? He wanted to feel bad about how close he’d gotten with Bill Cipher, but he just…couldn’t. He wanted to wish that he would never see Bill again, but instead he found himself looking forward to the moment the demon would next barge into his life out of the blue. Despite all his better judgment, he had actually come to like the guy. Bill was an adventure wrapped up in a criminally well-tailored suit. And god, was he good in bed. Dipper allowed himself to replay just a few of his memories from the night before, until he felt his heart rate speed up, and he forced himself to refocus on the present. What was he going to do? He could see no way to keep Pacifica as a friend, with Bill Cipher as a lover. And yet, he was not prepared to let go of either. 

He gazed up at the swaying, shadowy treetops and imagined tall, Oregon pines. Perhaps he never should have come to this city in the first place. Things would certainly have been simpler that way. But he found that he couldn’t even bring himself to wish for that. Bill had certainly put him behind the eight ball. He let out a heavy sigh and checked his wristwatch under the yellow light of the streetlamp beside him. If he walked briskly, he would still make it to the restaurant on time. 

o~~o

Abernathy’s was an old, distinguished establishment with a modern edge. The dark wood paneling on the walls gave it a bit of a rustic feel, but the chandeliers and wall-mounted light fixtures were artistic and modern, as were the black leather booths and chairs. The wait staff were crisply dressed and classically trained to be the epitome of courteous until you questioned their expertise. They shot subtle, reproachful glances Dipper’s way when he dashed into the restaurant dripping wet. It had started raining while he was walking over – just a sprinkle at first, and then a downpour, but by that point Dipper would have felt ridiculous hailing a dimbox to travel two blocks. So instead, he ran. 

The host took his dripping hat and overcoat to the coat check, and then showed him to the table where the rest of his party was seated. Mabel sat to Pacifica’s left, a precarious pile of shopping bags from ritzy Fifth Avenue shops between them, and to Pacifica’s right sat a tall man with quaffed black hair and an impeccable grey suit. A powder blue pocket square set off the ensemble and coordinated with the color of Pacifica’s dress. In appearance at least, they made the perfect high-power, socialite couple. 

Dipper took the empty chair next to Mabel. “Sorry I’m a little late, I…” A flash of yellow caught his eye as he was getting himself settled, and he had to stop his jaw from dropping. Of all the people in this enormous city, _Bill Cipher_ had just walked out of a back room behind a man who looked to be the the owner of the place. Bill was grinning like the Cheshire Cat as he offered his hand to the other man who, hesitantly, shook it. The man then walked slowly to the front of the restaurant, nodded to the host before putting on his hat, and left. Bill crossed back to a table where Sunshine and Quill sat perusing a pair of menus. Luckily, he didn’t seem to have noticed Dipper yet. 

“Do you know that fella?” Mabel asked, following Dipper’s gaze. 

“No!” Dipper said, and dropped down into his chair with a little too much force. That was the exact wrong response, because Mabel’s eyes lit up, and he knew exactly what she was thinking. And the worst part was, she was right. 

Baffled, Tom watched the twins communicate with facial expressions alone, while Pacifica, who had also taken note of the subject of the twins’ telepathic discussion, sat with her back straight, jaw clenched, and her hands clasped tightly in her lap. 

“We’ve got a big table. Why don’t you invite him over?” Mabel said finally, her smile a mixture of encouragement and sadistic glee. Dipper had learned to fear that smile from an early age. 

“He’s a busy guy,” Dipper said, fishing desperately for excuses, “and he won’t want to sit down to dinner with a bunch of people he doesn’t know. Speaking of which, I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. Tom, I take it?” Dipper offered his hand to Pacifica’s fiancée, who smiled gratefully at finally being acknowledged. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Dipper,” Tom said. “Pacifica’s told me great things about you. In fact, I’m not too proud to admit to a touch of jealousy at first.”

Dipper laughed a tad too strenuously, desperate to continue this change of subject. “If that’s true, then there’s plenty she hasn’t told you yet.”

Tom laughed in earnest. He seemed like a genuinely kind, normal guy. The kind of guy Dipper should have been interested in, but just…wasn’t. Because he apparently had a death wish. But he could see how Pacifica would want that kind of normalcy in her life after everything she’d been through. He really hoped with Tom she would find peace and happiness. And if Tom turned out not to be the man he seemed, Dipper thought grimly, he now had mafia ties he could probably convince (read: bribe with money or sex) into scaring some sense into the man, should the need arise. Unfortunately, as his thoughts strayed back to Bill, so did his eyes. And Bill was looking right at him. 

Dipper started when he met Bill’s gaze, but Bill just smiled and gave a friendly wave. “Well now you _have_ to invite him over,” Mabel said. “It would be rude not to. Let him decide whether or not he wants to join us.”

“He certainly looks like an interesting chap,” Tom said hesitantly. 

Dipper looked desperately at Pacifica, but she stayed silent, her cool gaze aloof. Essentially, she was telling Dipper that if he wanted to dig his own grave, he was welcome to it. But she was not about to get dirt under her nails. “Umm… Okay, fine. I’ll…invite him to come sit with us,” Dipper said. “But I’m telling you now, he’s not going to accept.” He tried to make that sound like a promise, for Pacifica’s benefit, but she merely arched an eyebrow, keen to know how he planned on dictating to the crime boss what he would and would not do. 

Slowly, he pushed out his chair and stood, walking across the restaurant like he was walking to the guillotine, which, fittingly, Bill’s smile rather resembled. When he reached Bill’s table, he nodded first to Sunshine and Quill, who returned the gesture. He then heaved a breath and addressed Bill, through teeth gritted in a false smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, me?” Bill drawled. “I own this place, as of–” he checked his pocket watch “–about twenty minutes ago. What are _you_ doing here, Pine Tree?”

“The same family has owned this place for decades,” Dipper said. “You mean to tell me they sold it to you? Just like that?”

“Everyone’s got a price, kid,” Bill said. “And this fine institution turns a pretty profit. Naturally, it caught my eye. But you didn’t answer my question. Why are you here, and with the Ice Queen, no less? Not to mention that choice bit of calico on the right,” Bill purred. 

Dipper was worried his jaw might crack if he grit his teeth any harder. “Firstly, Pacifica and I are friends. I’ve told you that. And secondly, that ‘choice bit of calico’ is my _identical_ twin sister, who looks exactly like me if I wore a dress.”

Bill tilted his head and looked Dipper up and down, clearly imagining such a costume change, and Dipper instantly regretted his snide comment. “Anyway,” he said quickly, “my sister wants me to invite you to have dinner with us, but clearly that’s a terrible idea, so I have to pretend like I’m inviting you, and you can make a show of graciously turning down my offer, and then we can both get back to our lives.” 

“Why Pine Tree, I’d be delighted,” Bill said.  


“What?”

“I accept your offer.” Bill stood and smoothed down his jacket, then made a ‘lead the way’ gesture. Quill and Sunshine, for their part, merely exchanged a look of minor annoyance, as if Bill ditched them like this all the time, before returning their attention to their menus. 

Dipper couldn’t very well rescind an offer he’d never actually made. Lost for words, and with no other apparent options, he reluctantly began the not-nearly-long-enough return journey to his own table, with Bill in step beside him. “What are you up to, Bill?” he hissed under his breath. 

Bill chuckled. “Must I always be ‘up to’ something?” 

“I’m going to go with yes,” Dipper replied bitterly. 

Bill only smiled at that. And then he was smiling at Mabel, Pacifica and Tom as he approached their table. He tipped his hat to the three of them. “Thank you for inviting me to share your company for the evening,” Bill said. “My name’s William Perich, I’m an acquaintance of Dipper’s. It’s a pleasure to meet you all.”

“Likewise,” Mabel replied enthusiastically, obviously taken with Bill’s false charm. “I’m Mabel, Dipper’s sister, and this is Pacifica, and her fiancée, Tom.” Tom dipped his head politely, but Pacifica held eye contact with Bill, her expression resolute and unflinching, but otherwise completely closed off. 

Bill turned his attention back to Mabel, taking her hand and pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it. “I’ve heard about you from Dipper, but he failed to mention how lovely you were. As stunning as a shooting star.” Mabel blushed, and shot Dipper a quizzical look, as if to ask, _are you sure this guy’s really on your team?_ Dipper merely rolled his eyes. 

Bill claimed the empty chair between Dipper and Tom. He grinned across the table at Pacifica. “That’s some handcuff ya got there,” he said. “I bet the diamond’s five carats, easy. A man’s just about gotta sell his soul to get his hands on something like that.”

“Some might say I have,” Tom said. “I work on Wall Street, you see.”

“Ah, that’d do the trick,” Bill replied. “But I think banking is perfectly respectable. Someone’s gotta take people’s money in this capitalist economy.”

Tom laughed. “Well, we do intend to give it back.”

“Of course,” Bill said slyly. “Still, it seems to me there are patterns in history. When humans build too big, too fast, they’re usually setting themselves up for a fall. But I’m sure Wall Street will be fine. After all, the stock market’s never been _this_ big before.”

“Exactly,” Tom said. “Although I suppose if anything did happen, my wife would still bring home plenty of berries for the both of us.” He smiled at Pacifica, who mustered a small smile in return. “She’s sitting even prettier than I am. Heck, next to her I’m practically a charity case. She is a Northwest, after all.”

“Ah, of Northwest Imports?” Bill said, feigning ignorance. “A family company, isn’t it?”

Dipper kicked Bill’s shin sharply under the table, but Bill ignored him completely, eye fixed on Pacifica once more. But Pacifica, astonishingly, kept her cool. “Yes, and I intend to keep it that way,” she said.

Bill smiled and leaned back in his chair, making room for the waiter who had just appeared to distribute glasses of ice water and take their orders. “So, William,” Mabel chimed in after the waiter had left, “what is it _you_ do? You don’t happen to be, oh…a musician per chance?”

Bill looked puzzled for the briefest of moments before he caught on. “You must have noticed the instrument I left at your brother’s apartment yesterday.” Pacifica’s eyes shot wide in alarm, but Bill simply carried on, “It was careless of me, really. I have a performance coming up that I’m going to need it for.”

Mabel’s eyes went a little bit starry when she asked, “Do you play jazz?”

Bill chuckled. “Don’t you know? Jazz is the devil’s music.”

Mabel giggled. Dipper wrung a corner of the tablecloth in his hands while studiously avoiding Pacifica’s gaze. He supposed he was grateful Bill hadn’t come right out and said, “Actually, I run the mafia,” but did he have to be so damned charming? “And where are you from?” Mabel asked next. “You have an interesting voice. Somewhere south?”

Bill put a fist to his mouth to stifle a laugh. With a big grin, he answered, “Yeah, you could say that.”

Dinner continued with Bill, Mabel and Tom carrying on most of the conversation, while Dipper and Pacifica contributed just enough to maintain the façade of a normal evening. Otherwise, the two of them sat tense and quiet, neither finding he or she had much of an appetite. Finally, the worst dinner of Dipper’s life was over and the five of them collected their outerwear from the coat check. (Sunshine and Quill, Dipper noted, were long gone.) Dipper started when, at the entrance, Bill placed a hand on his shoulder. “About that instrument I left at your place,” he said, “you wouldn’t mind if we swung by and picked it up, would you? I’m afraid I do need it somewhat urgently.”

“Um…” Dipper looked to the other three hesitantly.

“Go ahead, Bro-bro!” Mabel said with a little too much enthusiasm. “We’ll have plenty of time to continue catching up tomorrow.” Pacifica, for her part, was not about to offer an objection, and Tom merely shrugged. 

“A-alright,” Dipper said. “I’ll see you guys later, then.” 

“I’m parked around the corner,” Bill said, and began to lead the way. Dipper took one last look over his shoulder at his sister and his best friend receding down the block in the opposite direction, before running to catch up with Bill. 

“Hey, can’t you just–” Dipper snapped his fingers and made a gesture vaguely indicative of teleportation with his hands. It probably looked rather ridiculous. Luckily, Bill got the idea.

“’Course I can, Pine Tree. But it wouldn’t be very polite of me to intrude without an invitation.”

Dipper scrubbed a hand over his face. “You ruin everything, do you know that?” he informed the demon. At least it had stopped raining. 

“Ha! That’s practically my motto!” Bill said. He panned a hand across the air to evoke a marquee. “Bill Cipher, professional ruiner of everything. Hey, I should have that printed on my card.”

Despite the cold, welling dread of feeling his life slipping out of his control, Dipper couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up in his throat. Why did Bill have to be so charismatic? Perhaps it was the cognitive dissonance between exposure to the mafioso’s monstrous deeds and his magnetic personality that was hanging Dipper up here. He just couldn’t figure Bill out, and unfortunately, he liked things he couldn’t figure out. 

Bill…also drove a Bentley. It wasn’t silver or gold, thank goodness, although it did have gold accents (the man really kept to his color scheme). The body was a shiny, elegant black, with no bullet holes to be seen. “This isn’t the getaway car, I take it,” Dipper said as he clambered in through the passenger’s side door that Bill was holding open for him. 

“Oh, you’re funny,” Bill said. He shut the door behind Dipper and walked around the car to the driver’s side. Once he was behind the wheel, he turned the key in the ignition and the engine growled to life. He pulled out to the right and into traffic. After he’d driven a few blocks, Dipper finally realized they were heading further downtown. 

“Um, I’m pretty sure my apartment’s the other direction,” Dipper said. 

“I know.”

Dipper was only half-joking when he asked, “You’re not taking me for a ride, are you? Do I know too much?”

Bill shot Dipper a sideways smile, which was the opposite of reassuring. “Relax, kid. We’ll go to your place to pick up my Roscoe later. I just need to make a stop first.”

“Please tell me this isn’t a business-related stop,” Dipper said, but as they turned a corner, the dark façade of The Gold-Bug loomed up outside the window. 

“Not exactly,” Bill said. 

The next thing Dipper noticed was that the doors to the speakeasy were closed, and there were no crowds on the sidewalk. “Where is everyone? It’s a Saturday night.”

“We’ve closed up shop until this little spat with my sister is resolved,” Bill said, pulling into the side alley to park the Bentley. “We don’t want any of our patrons getting caught in the crossfire.” Dipper was surprised for a moment at Bill’s concern, until the demon added, “It would be bad for business.”

“Naturally,” Dipper said as they walked back out to the street. Bill unlocked the front doors of The Gold-Bug and ushered Dipper inside before locking them again behind himself. Everything was pitch-black for a moment, until Bill switched on the lights, and the enormous chandelier and all of the wall-mounted light fixtures glowed to life. 

Bill was already crossing the dance floor to the stairs leading down to the basement, and Dipper jogged to catch up. As Bill sorted through his keys for the one to unlock the door at the top of the stairs, he asked, “How long ago did you say it was that the Ice Queen and Mister Wall Street met?”

Caught off guard, Dipper floundered for an answer. “Er, Pacifica and Tom? I- I didn’t. Maybe eight months ago. Why?”

“I thought as much,” Bill said as they descended the stairs. He flipped the light switch at the bottom, and the sparse string of lightbulbs hung across the ceiling flickered on. 

“What do you mean?” Dipper asked, following Bill behind one of the freestanding liquor cabinets to find that the back side was a file cabinet – a bizarrely efficient use of space. 

As Bill rifled through the files on one of the upper shelves, he said, “Unless he _owns_ a bank, a Wall Street job doesn’t buy a diamond that big. That’s hot ice, or I’m the Queen of Sheba.”

“You think he stole it?” 

“I wouldn’t say that. He doesn’t strike me as a pincher. But I’ll bet ya a pair of C’s he had a hand in the caper. And that his real name ain’t Tom.”

“I’m all balled up here,” Dipper said. “What exactly are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Bill said, pulling out a file from one of the folders and holding it up for Dipper to see, “the next Mr. Northwest and I are in the same line of work.”

Dipper stared at the fuzzy photograph clipped to the top of the file. The quality was poor, but the man in the frame was still recognizable as the man Dipper had met tonight at dinner. The file itself was labeled “Codex Crew #7: Alistair Huxley,” and consisted of a ream of messily handwritten notes. Dipper could make out enough of the words to be alarmed. 

“I’ll decipher Mouse’s chicken scratch for you,” Bill said. “Your friend’s fiancée works for my sister. He’s a fresh face in this game, so I didn’t recognize him right away, but Mouse’s info’s always good. Huxley, A.K.A. Tom, probably arranged a ‘chance’ meeting with the girl at my sister’s behest, to gain her trust, and access to her company. Northwest Imports is the biggest importer in the state, and once my sister found out that I no longer had control of it, she must have wanted a shot at sinking her own claws into it. And it looks like she’s gonna pull it off. This means she’s been building her position in this city longer than I’d thought…”

“We have to warn Pacifica!” Dipper said, attempting to snatch the file from Bill’s hand, but Bill only raised it above his reach. 

“Whoah there, Pine Tree,” Bill said. “First of all, _we_ aren’t doing anything. _I_ don’t owe that girl any favors. She should have accepted my offer if she wanted protection. She was foolish to think other parties wouldn’t be interested. Besides, like I said last night, I expect to have this whole spat with my sister taken care of soon, after which the point will be moot.”

“But Pacifica will be in danger!” Dipper said. “What if after the wedding Huxley kills her and Priscilla to gain control of the company himself?”

Bill shrugged. “That’d make him an enterprising fella. I might have a place for someone like him.”

Dipper smacked Bill clear across the face. His heart rate spiked as Bill raised a hand to his jaw and gave Dipper the full force of his attention. Dipper’s mind raced as quickly as his heart to find some way to turn Bill around to his side. Luckily, he’d always been a quick thinker. “You said your sister’s only interested in the things you’re interested in,” he said in a placating tone. “You’re still interested in Northwest Imports, aren’t you?” Bill remained silent, his eye narrowed as though he were reconsidering his fondness for this brash little human. “What if this is the perfect opportunity to get back into Pacifica’s good graces?” Dipper continued quickly. “To regain a bargaining position with her? If you stop her from marrying Huxley, and maybe…” Dipper rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, “…remove him from the picture somehow, then Pacifica might owe _you_ a favor.”

Bill considered Dipper for an agonizing moment longer before the corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. “You’ve got a devious mind, kid. I knew there was a reason I didn’t kill you when we met. We'll try this your way. I’ll make sure she gets this file in the morning,” he said, setting it aside. “And I’ll leave Chopper’s number with it. She’s plenty good at ‘removing people from the picture,’ as you put it.”

Dipper let out a heavy sigh of relief. Things were, surprisingly, looking up. He knew he shouldn’t be glad that Pacifica was unwittingly engaged to a mobster, but if Bill was responsible for letting her in on that fact, and for solving the problem for her, then maybe she wouldn’t hate him so vehemently. She would at least have to admit that she would never have known about Tom/Huxley until it was too late, if not for Dipper’s relationship with Bill. She might even come around to the idea of sharing a mutual acquaintance with Bill Cipher. After all, this would be the second favor he’d done her, even if he hadn't realized the first had been a favor.

Dipper’s thoughts were interrupted when Bill backed him into the file cabinet, and his heart began to race for entirely different reasons. “Now, since we have the place to ourselves…” Bill said, his hands curling around Dipper’s hips. Dipper, having had quite enough emotional and ethical conflicts for one day, finally allowed himself to do what he wanted, and tilted his head back to meet Bill’s lips. Bill practically devoured him, pressing him back against the cabinet and digging his fingers (claws?) hard into Dipper’s flesh. He bit Dipper’s bottom lip hard enough to draw blood – no doubt retribution for Dipper having slapped him earlier. Dipper had never particularly enjoyed rough handling before, but damn if Bill didn’t know just the right amount of pressure to apply in just the right places to make it feel _good_. 

Dipper was beginning to get a little worked up when Bill placed a finger on Dipper’s chin and pulled back from the kiss. It was only the knowledge that the entirety of his dignity rested on the matter that helped Dipper refrain from vocalizing the high-pitched whine in the back of his throat. “Not that this isn’t fun,” Bill said, still tantalizingly close, “but you never let me finish my sentence. I was going to ask if you’d care to dance.”

“D-dance?” Dipper asked, the word alone like a bucket of cold water over his brain. 

“That is a dance floor above us,” Bill said. 

“I-I don’t really… With no music?”

“There’ll be music,” Bill said. “And if you don’t know the steps, I don’t mind playing teacher.”

“Uh…okay?” Dipper said in a small voice, wishing that at least Jack were there so he could fix Dipper a nice, strong cocktail before he thoroughly embarrassed himself. 

As soon as the words left his lips, he found himself on the upper level, standing with Bill in the middle of the dance floor. He blinked a few times, stupidly, before Bill confirmed that they had, in fact, teleported, by asking snidely, “Oh, should I have snapped my fingers?” Dipper shook himself out of his shock and glared at the demon. Bill only grinned wider in response. “Now,” he said, taking Dipper’s right hand in his left, and placing Dipper’s left hand on his shoulder, “your hand goes there, and mine goes here.” He slid his right hand down to the small of Dipper’s back, which Dipper was fairly certain was a little lower than the strictly correct position. 

That was when he realized what Bill had done. “Hey, you’ve put me in the lady’s position!”

“Because you’re shorter,” Bill said, which Dipper objectively could not argue with, “and because the man leads, and I can’t exactly teach you how to dance if I’m not leading.”

“Okay, that’s fair,” Dipper assented. 

“Besides,” Bill said, “I don’t recall you voicing any objections to being in the lady’s position last night.” Dipper’s cheeks turned beet red instantly. He tried to stomp on Bill’s foot, but Bill evaded easily and only snickered harder at the futility of Dipper’s attempt. “Now, Pine Tree, it’s bad etiquette to step on your partner’s toes,” Bill said. “But I suppose you have a right to be upset. I did promise you music, after all.” With a sweeping wave of his arm, a golden mist slowly spilled outward across the dance floor, condensing into vague forms at first, which quickly became recognizable as human pairs of dancers. Up on the stage, a ghostly, golden band rose up into being, and poised their instruments to play. His anger forgotten, Dipper marveled at the beautiful scene around him. “I can do more with magic than just set things on fire,” Bill said. “And occasionally, I’ll create a dream instead of a nightmare.”

“Am I dreaming?” Dipper asked.

“That,” Bill said, almost fondly, “is a question you’ll never know the answer to.” With a flick of his hand, the band started to play a quick-tempo jazz number, and the other dancers swirled into motion. “Just follow my lead, kid.”

o~~o

Bill held Dipper in a low dip as the music wound down, and the other dancers came to a halt, and then began to disappear along with the band. Dipper wasn’t sure how long they’d been dancing – hours, perhaps. All he’d known was that he’d never wanted it to end. 

“Well, you’re no Oliver Twist,” Bill said, “but you ain’t so bad.”

Dipper closed the little distance between them to press a kiss lightly to Bill’s mouth. “Thank you,” he said.

Bill blinked, pulling Dipper back into a vertical position along with him. “It was nothing, kid,” he said. “Anyway, it’s getting late. How’s about I drive you home?”

“Alright,” Dipper said. They walked back down the stairs to the basement and exited via the secret tunnel into the side alley where the automobile was parked. “You know,” Dipper said, feeling unusually forthcoming as Bill unlocked the passenger door of the Bentley, “I still can’t figure out why I like you when I really, _really_ shouldn’t.”

“Aw, don’t blame yourself, Pine Tree,” Bill said smugly. “I make my business on people wanting what they shouldn’t. And as a demon, I’m essentially the manifestation of what people want but shouldn’t: wealth, knowledge, power, beauty–”

Dipper snorted. Bill raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow in response. “Yeah, okay,” Dipper assented. “But…do you like me? At all?”

Bill looked offended. “Of course I do. I may be immortal, but I wouldn’t waste my time on someone I didn’t like. I’m not a charity.” 

Bill’s words were oddly heartening, and they put a smile on Dipper’s face. “Alright, let’s go—”

_“BROTHER!”_ a woman screamed. Both Dipper and Bill turned toward the mouth of the alley, where a woman stood silhouetted in the street light. Dipper couldn’t make out any of her features, but she looked injured. Badly. He didn’t see the pistol in her hand until she had raised it, aimed, and fired. 

Dipper barely heard the echo of he shot. Gasping once, he clutched a hand to his chest and stumbled backward, his feet slipping out from under him as the world tilted. Without really knowing how he’d got that way, he was lying on his back on the grimy pavement. He fumbled blindly inside the left breast pocket of his coat and pulled out his pocket notebook. There was a hole clean through it, and its pages – as well as his fingers – were soaked with blood. 

Suddenly, Bill was standing over him, looking down at him with an annoyed expression. “Shit, why did you have to go and get yourself shot?”

Dipper tried to inform Bill flippantly that it wasn’t his fault, but blood bubbled up in his throat and drowned out his words. 

Bill let out an exasperated sigh. “Wake up, kid.”

Again, Dipper tried to tell Bill that he had no idea what he was talking about, but the edges of his vision began to darken, and his mind felt fuzzy. Was this what dying felt like? “Wake up,” Bill said again, and his words were the last thing Dipper heard as everything went black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said earlier, there was a clue to the end of this fic in my cipher wheel back in chapter 6. Chopper's symbol, the gun, is pointed right at the pine tree symbol, meaning the pine tree gets 'chopped' down... (It's really just a bad pun in terrible taste, but then again, so am I.)
> 
> This is totally anachronistic, but I imagined Bill and Dipper dancing to this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AtToopQG4uw
> 
> all wet - wrong  
> behind the eight ball - in a difficult position  
> choice bit of calico - attractive woman  
> handcuff - engagement ring  
> berries - money  
> take someone for a ride - take someone to a deserted location to kill them  
> hot ice - stolen diamonds  
> Roscoe - gun  
> pincher - thief  
> a pair of C’s - $200  
> balled up - confused  
> Oliver Twist - skilled dancer


	13. Waking Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said at the beginning, this work is meant to stand on its own, but it's also the 3rd part in a series, and this is where it really ties in with the rest of the series. I hope people who have just been following Family aren't too confused! But feel free to comment with questions. It's been a lot of fun writing this. This is definitely the installment of the Providence series I've spent the most time and effort on (to my surprise - this was kind of supposed to be short and cracky). I do intend to write a 4th installment of the series, but probably not for awhile, as I have other stuff (fics and an original novel) to work on. Thank you all for reading!

“Wake up.”

Dipper flailed and fell a short distance before he thudded face-first onto a hard surface. Frantically, he scrabbled at his chest to find a perplexing lack of blood and gore. Taking further stock of himself and his surroundings, he found that he was lying in a heap of blankets on a wooden floor, and that he must have fallen out of the bed beside him. No, wait… These weren’t just any blankets, floor and bed. They were _his_. Though not the ones he remembered most recently, he recognized them nonetheless, and like a dream that was slowly coming back to him, he realized he was in his old attic room in the Mystery Shack back in Gravity Falls. No, wrong again, not his _old_ room…his current one. 

A familiar face peered down at him from over the edge of the bed. Immediately, Bill broke into a huge grin and began to dissolve into hysterics, cackling loudly at Dipper’s panicked fit. “It…it was all a dream,” Dipper realized, not sure if he was talking to himself or his asshole demon boyfriend. “Bill!” Dipper yelled, and lunged back onto the bed, tackling the giggling demon and pinning him to the mattress. “It was all a fucking dream?!” Dipper said again, attempting to shake Bill out of his laughing fit. 

The demon reached up to wipe a tear from his eye as he said, “Oh man, you should have seen the look on your face! You thought you were really gonna die. Jeez Pine Tree, I can’t take you anywhere.”

Dipper despaired at the complete lack of sympathy he was getting from Bill. “This is just…a huge cliché,” Dipper said, stunned. 

“Hm?” Bill said, still struggling to suppress intermittent giggles. 

“Everything being a dream,” Dipper clarified. “I feel like I’m in a bad movie.”

Bill frowned, apparently taking offense. “Excuse me, I _invented_ that cliché. All those Hollywood hacks stole it from me.”

Dipper was still trying to process this massive shift in his perceived reality as he stared down at Bill. “Why… Why were we in New York in the Roaring Twenties?”

Bill rolled his eye. “You wanted me to teach you about lucid dreaming, remember?” Dipper actually did remember that, now that he thought about it. Bill had suggested the setting as “fun,” and sufficiently removed from current reality that Dipper shouldn’t have gotten the two confused. Except— “Except you didn’t do any of the things I told you to do,” Bill continued. “You didn’t check the clocks, didn’t try to read any fine print, didn’t look into any mirrors. Heck, you didn’t even notice the scene transitions!”

“Wait…I did look at some clocks,” Dipper said, recalling a few instances when he’d checked his watch. 

“Sure, you looked at them, but you didn’t _read_ them,” Bill said. “You just assumed that the time was what you thought it was. If you’d actually read them, you would have seen that whatever they were showing didn’t make any sense. I tried to tip you off, kid, but if I’d just outright told you you were dreaming, you would have woken up. You were such a pain to deal with, too, since it was _your_ dream, so your subconscious kept sending it off in different directions. _I_ just wanted to have fun, but _you_ kept bringing in all these conflicts and giving yourself anxiety over every one of them.”

“You must have had _some_ control. I mean, that’s kind of your thing,” Dipper reasoned. 

“Yes, I had some control,” Bill said. “But if I’d exercised it any more than I had, it wouldn’t have been _your_ dream anymore.”

“So…did you make me a Psych major, or did I? Because I’m pretty sure I want to major in English,” Dipper said. 

“There’s nothing more useful than the study of the mind,” Bill said defensively, and Dipper had his answer. “If you know how people think, you can get them to do anything.”

“I don’t want to go to college just to learn how to manipulate people, Bill,” Dipper told the demon, for probably the fifth time since they had started discussing his future at Reed. 

“Just consider it,” Bill said, waving a hand dismissively. “ _You_ made yourself a famous author, though.”

“Oh…” Dipper cringed. “That’s a little embarrassing.”

“You also jumped into bed with a stranger after practically the first date,” Bill said with a mischievous smile. 

Dipper blushed furiously, memories of _that_ part of the dream resurfacing unbidden. “You- you seduced me!”

“Easily,” Bill said, grinning. To take the bite out of his teasing, he leaned up and claimed Dipper’s mouth in a kiss, which Dipper returned despite himself. “Not that I’m complaining,” Bill said, after they’d parted. 

Dipper frowned thoughtfully. “I think… I think some part of me knew you weren’t a stranger.”

“Well, that’s minor progress, I suppose,” Bill said.

“I was terrified of you all over again, though,” Dipper chuckled. 

Bill was frowning now. “Kid, fear – especially fear of me – is a very healthy thing.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, you’re evil.”

Bill scoffed. “Excuse you, Pine Tree. I’m not evil, I’m amoral and chaotically inclined.”

Dipper snickered. “What are we, in a D, D & D campaign now?”

“Hey, that’s not a bad idea,” Bill said. “Wanna do a dream D, D & D campaign next?”

Dipper let out an embarrassing squeak of excitement and an “Oh my gosh, can we?” before he cleared his throat and tried to cover up his outburst by saying, “I mean, I’ll probably need to get better at this before we try something like that.”

“Practice makes perfect, Pine Tree,” Bill reassured him, running his claws through Dipper’s messy hair. 

Dipper chuckled as Bill tried to sort his hair out into some semblance of order. “Why are you such a neat freak? You’re a primordial force of chaos.”

“That doesn’t mean I tolerate slobbery,” Bill said primly. 

“Hang on…” Dipper said, feeling his blood run a little cold at the thought that had just occurred to him. “What was your sister doing in my dream? That wasn’t really her, was it?” Dipper’s voice was hushed, as if she might be listening even then. 

Bill’s expression turned grim as well, but he didn’t seem worried. “I’m afraid that’s my fault. That wasn’t really her, just how I remember her. She wouldn’t have been able to hurt us if you had realized she was just a dream figment like everything else, but since you believed she could, she could.”

“But you didn’t intend for her to be there?” Dipper asked. 

“No, that was…involuntary,” Bill admitted. “Part of my psyche bleeding in. Turns out she’s not someone who’s easy to forget.”

Dipper gave Bill a warm smile and draped his arm across Bill’s abdomen as he settled back into bed beside the demon. “Well I think it’s good that you haven’t forgotten about her. Even though she was a monster and you had to kill her, she was still a big part of your life. You shouldn’t forget about someone who meant that much to you, good or bad.” Dipper had secretly suspected that Alexandra had meant more to Bill than he’d ever admitted, and this seemed to confirm Dipper’s suspicions. 

“You may be right, kid,” Bill said noncommittally. “Y’know, sometimes your optimism and moral rectitude make me wanna peel off all my skin just to get the goodness out.” Dipper made a disgusted face, but he was more or less used to Bill’s brand of strangeness and horror by this point. “Have you done a single morally reprehensible thing this week?” Bill asked. 

Dipper eyed Bill thoughtfully. “I dunno, does sleeping with a demon count?”

Bill smiled slowly as he returned Dipper’s gaze. “Seems to me just once is a slip-up anyone might make,” he said, running his thumb over the curve of Dipper’s lips. “A moral grey area at best. If you did it again, though, knowing it’s wrong…” Bill trailed off huskily as Dipper’s lips parted. The light of dawn was only just starting to filter in through the curtains. They had a few hours before everyone else would be awake. Plenty of time for Dipper to thoroughly ruin his good name. 

o~~o

“Do I look more intimidating in a fedora?” Bill asked, looking himself over in a full-length mirror he’d popped into existence in the corner of Dipper’s room. He had morphed his usual top hat into a black fedora whose wide brim cast a shadow over his eyes. His golden eye glowed slightly in the dark. 

Dipper rather liked the look on him, actually, but from a twenty-first century perspective… “I think nowadays wearing a fedora makes you a hipster,” Dipper said. 

Bill gasped, and quickly reverted his hat to its usual shape. He thought for a moment, and then asked, “What about Tommy guns, have hipsters ruined those yet?” He collapsed his cane between his palms, and when he opened them again, a Thompson sub-machine gun materialized between them. 

Dipper yelped and leapt back. “Bill, you do _not_ need an automatic weapon!” he yelled. 

There was a knock on Dipper’s door and Mabel’s voice inquired from the other side, “Bill, are you murdering my brother?”

“Manslaughter, maybe!” Dipper called back. 

“Well I need to know if you’re gonna be alive in a few minutes, ‘cause I’m making pancakes and I need to know how many to make,” Mabel responded. 

Bill chuckled and collapsed the gun between his hands, bringing back his usual cane in its place. “I was only joking around, Shooting Star! He’ll be down for breakfast!” he called to her. 

“Good!” Mabel replied cheerfully. “Just come down when you two are done being cute.”

Dipper pinched the bridge of his nose to rub away the tension. Sometimes it seemed he was the _only_ one in this house who still had a healthy fear of Bill. Grunkle Stan certainly didn’t. “Will your imaginary boyfriend be joining us for breakfast?” he asked when Dipper finally padded into the kitchen. 

“He’s not imaginary, he’s a dream entity,” Dipper grumbled, putting on a pot of coffee. He hadn’t gotten much sleep. “And he’ll be down soon, he’s just having a fashion crisis.”

“How’d you sleep, Bro-bro?” Mabel asked as she flipped a pancake. They were less sparkly than she used to make them when they were kids, but she still added a pinch of glitter “for presentation.” 

“Swell,” Dipper said, his mind solely on his coffee. 

Grunkle Stan chuckled. “Kid, the last person I heard say ‘swell’ was my grandpa.”

Dipper blinked blearily a couple of times before he realized what he’d said. “Damnit Bill,” he muttered under his breath. 

“Hey, that reminds me of this crazy dream I had last night,” Mabel said. “You were in it, Dip-dop, and so was Pacifica! She was getting married, and we were all in New York in the twenties for some reason.” Bill came strolling into the kitchen just then, and Mabel yelled, startling him. “Bill! You were in my dream, too! You were a jazz musician!”

“Oh really?” Bill asked, a crooked smile teasing at the corner of his mouth. “Sounds like a fun dream.”

“Well I feel left out,” Stan grumbled. “Morning, hellspawn,” he greeted Bill in his usual manner. 

“Morning, Mister Pines,” Bill replied cheerily. At first he had rankled at the nickname, but he’d since decided to own it. After all, the methods required to correct Stan’s behavior would probably upset Dipper. 

Bill came around to stand behind Dipper, and his arms snaked around the human’s waist as he rested his chin on Dipper’s shoulder. Dipper, exhausted as he was, leaned into Bill’s embrace and closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the relative calm of a summer morning in the Mystery Shack. Bill chuckled. “Hey Pine Tree, if you fall for me and no one else is around to hear it, do you make a sound?”

“Please don’t push me over to prove a point,” Dipper said. 

Mabel giggled. “Of course he does!” she chimed in. “Tiiimbeeeeeerrr!”

Dipper groaned and buried his face in his hands. Sometimes he wondered how he managed to live with these people. But more often than not over this last summer before college, he had started to wonder how he was ever going to live without them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, if you guys are interested I can post the larger dictionary of 20s slang I compiled and was working with for this fic. Just let me know.
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed my writing, you can commission a story from me here: http://urban-sorcerer.tumblr.com/commissions


	14. Dipper's Dictionary of Snazzy 1920s Slang!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By popular demand...

Crime-related slang:

  * baby grand: heavily built man
  * barrel house: illegal distillery
  * beef: a complaint or to complain
  * behind the eight ball: in a difficult position, in a tight spot
  * belt: a drink of liquor
  * bent car: stolen car
  * bit: prison sentence
  * boiler: car
  * box: a safe or a bar
  * box job: a safecracking
  * brace (somebody): grab, shake up
  * bracelets: handcuffs
  * bull: a policeman or law-enforcement official, including FBI
  * bump off: to murder, to kill
  * burn powder: fire a gun
  * button man: professional killer
  * call copper: inform the police
  * caper: a criminal act or robbery
  * century/C: $100; a pair of Cs: $200
  * cheese it: put things away, hide
  * chewing gum: double-speak, or ambiguous talk.
  * Chicago lightning: gunfire
  * Chicago overcoat: coffin
  * Chicago typewriter: a Thompson sub-machine gun
  * chilled off: killed
  * chisel: to swindle or cheat
  * chump: a person marked for a con or a gullible person
  * clean sneak: an escape with no clues left behind
  * clubhouse: police station
  * chopper: a Thompson sub-machine gun
  * chopper squad: men with machine guns 
  * clam: a dollar
  * cool: to knock out
  * cooler: jail
  * crab: figure out
  * crushed out: escaped (from jail)
  * daylight, as in "fill him with daylight": put a hole in, by shooting or stabbing
  * dib: share (of the proceeds)
  * don't know from nothing: doesn't have any information
  * dope: drugs, esp. cocaine or opium
  * drill: to shoot
  * drop a dime: make a phone call, sometimes meaning to the police to inform on someone
  * droppers: hired killers
  * drum: speakeasy
  * duck soup: easy, a piece of cake
  * dust out: leave, depart
  * Edisoned: questioned
  * embalmer: a bootlegger
  * fog: to shoot
  * fuzz: the police
  * gat: gun
  * glaum: steal
  * goog: black eye
  * goon: thug
  * grifter: con man
  * grand/large: $1000
  * hatchet men: killers, gunmen
  * heat: the police
  * heater: gun
  * heavy sugar: a lot of money
  * heeled: carrying a gun
  * highbinders: corrupt politician or functionary
  * hinky: suspicious
  * hock shop: pawnshop
  * hogs: engines
  * hot: stolen
  * ice: diamonds
  * jam: trouble, a tight spot
  * juice joint: speakeasy
  * kale: money
  * kick off: die
  * lay off: cut the crap
  * lead: bullets
  * lead poisoning: to be shot
  * left holding the bag: to be blamed for something
  * line: a false story, as in “to feed one a line.”
  * made: recognized
  * moll: a gangster’s girl
  * nailed: caught by the police
  * newshawk: reporter
  * on the lam: fleeing from authorities
  * on the level/on the up and up: legitimate, honest
  * orchid: an expensive item
  * packing heat: carrying a gun
  * paste: punch
  * patsy: person who is set up; fool, chump
  * peaching: informing
  * pen: penitentiary, jail
  * pigeon: stool-pigeon
  * pinch: to arrest or to steal
  * plug: to shoot
  * pull a Daniel Boone: to throw up
  * put the screws on: question, get tough with
  * quiff: prostitute or promiscuous person
  * rap: criminal charge
  * rat: inform
  * rats and mice: dice, i.e. craps
  * real McCoy: the genuine article
  * Roscoe: gun
  * rotgut: bootleg liquor
  * sap: a fool, an idiot
  * scratch: money
  * scratcher: forger
  * shyster: lawyer
  * sing: make a confession
  * sitting pretty: in a prime position
  * snake charmer: a woman involved in bootlegging
  * snitch: an informer, or to inform
  * squirrel: to hide
  * stiff: a corpse
  * take someone for a ride: to take someone to a deserted location and murder them
  * tiger milk: some sort of liquor
  * tighten the screws: put pressure on someone
  * tip a few: to have a few drinks
  * torpedo: a hired thug or hitman
  * trip for biscuits: wild goose chase
  * trouble boys: gangsters
  * under glass: in jail
  * wearing iron: carrying a gun
  * whisper sister: female proprietor of a speakeasy
  * white lightning: bootleg liquor



Slang Bill uses most or others use most to talk about him:

  * all wet: incorrect
  * attaboy!/attagirl!: well done!
  * blow: (1) a crazy party (2) to leave
  * cash: a kiss
  * cash or check?: do we kiss now or later?
  * cast a kitten/have kittens: to have a fit
  * cat's meow: great, also "cat's pajamas" and "cat's whiskers”
  * choice bit of calico: attractive female, student
  * copacetic: excellent
  * dame: a pretty woman
  * dapper:  fine appearance for a man's clothing
  * dish: a pretty woman
  * get a slant: take a look
  * giggle water: booze
  * hair of the dog: a shot of alcohol.
  * half seas over: drunk, also "half under."
  * hotsy–totsy: pleasing
  * icy mitt: rejection
  * Jane: any female
  * keen: attractive or appealing
  * kisser: mouth
  * know one's onions: to know one's business or what one is talking about
  * “let’s blouse!”: “let’s blow this popsicle stand!”
  * off one's nuts: mentally imbalanced
  * off the track: describes a person who becomes insanely violent
  * Oliver Twist: a skilled dancer
  * pan: face
  * panic: to produce a big reaction from one's audience
  * piker: A coward
  * pos-i-lute-ly: absolutely, affirmative
  * prune pit: anything that is old-fashioned
  * quilt: a drink that warms one up
  * screwy: crazy
  * sheba: girlfriend
  * skirt: a pretty woman
  * spifflicated: drunk
  * spill: to talk
  * streeted: thrown out of a party
  * tasty: appealing
  * tight: attractive
  * vamp: (1) an aggressive flirt (2) to seduce
  * what’s eating you?: what’s wrong?
  * windsucker: a braggart
  * wrong number: not a good fellow
  * ya follow?: do you understand?
  * you slay me!: that’s funny!



Slang Dipper uses most or others use most to talk about him:

  * applesauce/horsefeathers: flattery, nonsense, e.g. "Aw, applesauce!”
  * balled up: confused, messed up
  * cake-eater: a lady's man
  * canceled stamp: A shy girl at a dance or party
  * flat tire: a bore
  * grummy: sad
  * Jake: OK, fine, e.g. "everything's Jake.”
  * mill: typewriter
  * milquetoast: a timid person
  * Mrs. Grundy: a priggish or extremely tight-laced person
  * so's your old man - expression of sarcasm
  * wise head: a smart person 
  * wurp: a killjoy



Slang for Pacifica:

  * bearcat: a fiery girl
  * egg: a person who lives the big life
  * handcuff: engagement ring
  * high hat: a snob
  * insured: engaged
  * middle aisle: to marry



Miscellaneous slang:

  * and how!: very much so!
  * ankle: to walk, e.g. "let's ankle!”
  * bank's closed: no kissing or making out, e.g. "sorry, mac, bank's closed"
  * bent: drunk
  * berries: (1) perfect (2) money
  * bushwa: a euphemism for “bullshit"
  * canned: drunk
  * chin: conversation; chinning: talking
  * chin music: gossip
  * clammed: close-mouthed (clammed up)
  * coffin varnish: bootleg liquor - often poisonous
  * darb: a great person or thing
  * dimbox: a taxi
  * dimbox jaunt: a taxi ride
  * dip the bill: have a drink
  * dogs: feet
  * dry up: shut up, get lost
  * ducky: very good
  * dud up: to dress up
  * edge: intoxication, a buzz
  * fella: fellow (as common in its day as “man," "dude," or "guy" is today)
  * flogger: overcoat
  * fried: drunk
  * get in a lather: get worked up, angry
  * get sore: get mad
  * go chase yourself: get lost, scram
  * greenland: a park
  * grungy: envious
  * hit on all sixes: to perform 100 per cent; from "hitting on all six cylinders"
  * iron one’s shoelaces: to go to the restroom
  * jaw: talk
  * lay off: cease action
  * level with me: be honest
  * mac: man
  * mitt: hand
  * nifty: excellent, great
  * now you’re on the trolley!: now you’ve got it, now you’re right
  * ossified: drunk
  * owl: A person who’s out late, a night owl
  * petting: making out
  * piffle/bunk/hokum: baloney
  * pipe down: stop talking
  * punch the bag: small talk
  * rain pitchforks: a downpour
  * razz: to make fun of
  * Reuben: a country bumpkin
  * rhatz: how disappointing, or “darn!”
  * rub: a student dance party
  * rummy: a drunken bum
  * says you: disbelief
  * scram: ask someone to leave immediately
  * screw: get lost, get out, etc.
  * smoked: drunk
  * spiffy: looking elegant
  * stilts: legs
  * swell: (1) good (2) high class
  * tell it to Sweeney: tell it to someone who is gullible
  * that's the crop: that's all of it 



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I compiled this from a bunch of different online sources that I didn't keep the links to, so unfortunately I can't cite it properly. But I made sure they all seemed reputable.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you've enjoyed my writing, you can commission a story from me here: http://urban-sorcerer.tumblr.com/commissions


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